


Floral Curtains and Lace Carpets

by scumfuck



Category: Bob Dylan (Musician), Robbie Robertson - Fandom
Genre: 1960's, 1960s Music, 1965, 1966, Bob Dylan - Freeform, Drugs, First Kiss, First Time Handjobs, Gay, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nothing serious though, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Sexual References, Smut, The Band - Freeform, amphetamines... Hdsjsksksj, bob dylan and the band, bob going electric, bob neuwirth - Freeform, implied suicidal thoughts, it goes back and forth between 1965-1970s hehehe, robbie robertson - Freeform, sara is briefly mentioned, suicide attempt (drowning)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2020-02-09 15:12:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18640639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scumfuck/pseuds/scumfuck
Summary: He listens to the sound of Robbie tapping out his ashes onto the hotel carpet, and licks his lips anxiously, because it goes so slow that Bob wants to rip the cigarette out of his hands and replace it with his own hand. He wants to kiss each of Robbie's knuckles and the calluses on his fingers.





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> totally fictional, but the phone call at the beginning and the references to robbie& bob playing together in glasgow are taken from "eat the document", a shittily-edited movie depicting bob's tour life in 1966. 
> 
> hope u like this anyways!

  **May, 1966.**

The clang of the telephone ringing makes Bob's headache pound into his skull even harder thanbefore. It's probably worse than hearing all those people booing in the audience every night, because by now, he expected that. You see, you never expect a phone call, not really. It's a thing that's randomly pulled out of a hat, and it could be anyone talking about anything. Audiences booing was inevitable. God put random phone calls in our lives to interrupt us, to piss us off. That's what Bob thinks, at least.

The room is packed with people, and it's making him claustrophobic. He's sitting on the floor against a far wall next to Albert. The band is sitting mostly on the bed, save Richard, who's been in the bathroom since they checked into the hotel. Bad trip or something.

Neuwirth is shoving the ringing telephone, which is attached to a long black string, into Robbie's hands. Robbie, he says, is the personable one. Robbie can keep things under control and Robbie is almost never under any influence. Except maybe speed. They were all on speed. But, Neuwirth boasts, Robbie doesn't let it affect him.

Robbie takes the phone call and slowly greets the other line. Bob stops slowly plucking the strings of his guitar so that he can hear. Earlier in the evening, after the show, he and Robbie had practiced a ton of songs together; some were for concerts just to brush up, and others were just tunes they remembered from playing folk.

Bob takes a sip of a glass of wine he hadn't finished yet, and waits for the other line to finish talking. He can't make out exactly what the man saying, but he can tell he's angry.

Robbie licks his lips. "Right, sir," he says calmly into the phone. "Well, you know..."

Bob sits back. "Hey," he calls out, and uses his foot to poke at Robbie. The guitarist looks down at him from the bed. "Lie," Bob says.

Robbie nods and goes back to the phone. "Sir, I don't usually have people over at night, you know, and this was one of the few times I did, and they just got out of hand. I couldn't keep control..." Bob smiles. Robbie nods solemnly as the man goes on. "Oh, surely you know what that's like, right?" Robbie's voice is mocking, and Neuwirth breaks into laughter. Robbie slaps his chest with the back of his hand.

Bob watches him, the way he calmly addresses the man, who's absolutely complaining about the noise. Bob decides with finality that he likes Robbie. Robbie's a good guy and Robbie can lie well. Bob likes that and he also likes the way that around this time of night, there's stubble that grows around Robbie's mouth. He's staring now, and when he glances up, Robbie is staring back at him. Robbie breaks into a grin. 

"Okay...Okay...Yes, I'll tell them that...Okay. We'll do that, then...Or- uh, if we must keep on, I'll call you back," Robbie says. "Thank you. Good night to you, too. All right, yes."

He replaces the phone and is met with a cheer from the room. He smiles and sheepishly takes the attention. Bob stays silent, purses his lips and stares at the floor.

"Too much noise, guys!" Neuwirth yells, throwing his hands up in the air, and now the attention is back on him. Neuwirth has always been the funny guy, the clown, and sometimes Bob finds it useful. Most of the time, he finds it annoying. But someone's gotta be in the spotlight, and if Bob has to do it on stage, he's sure as hell not going to do it in his free time.

Suddenly Bob is itching for a cigarette and some fresh air, which is an odd craving, because cigarette smoke is the opposite of fresh. He stands then, and the room seems to snap their eyes towards him. Neuwirth speaks louder, does some impression of the president to make the band laugh. Bob leaves the room silently.

The suite has two attached rooms, one saved for Bob, the other for Albert and Sally. The band and Neuwirth and the rest of them have separate rooms on the floor below them, where they should be sleeping in by now, but no one ever really follows the rules.

Bob closes the door behind him and opens the window. The window is screen-less and the cold Glasgow air hits his face harshly, like a rightful slap. Bob contemplates slipping off the windowsill, wonders what would happen had he fallen splat on the pavement some five floors below him. He shakes his head. "Dumb," he whispers to himself, and lights a cigarette.

He burns through half of it before a soft knock comes to his door. He grumbles something incoherent, but loud enough for the knocker to hear. The lock clicks open and Robbie's head peeks through, makes eye contact with Bob.

"Can I come in?" he asks. Bob shrugs and turns back to the window.

"If you want."

Robbie doesn't have his guitar with him like he usually does when he visits Bob's rooms. He's empty-handed and his long, thin legs wobble awkwardly. His gait is slightly bow-legged and he finally decides to sit on the edge of the bed, right across from Bob.

Out of courtesy, Bob hands his cigarette over. The younger man snatches it willingly, taking a smooth, quiet drag. "You weren't feeling it in there?" 

Bob takes the cigarette back and shrugs. He doesn't feel like answering the question. He gets too many questions in one day.

"Good job with that phone call, man," he says instead. Robbie nods, grins, and takes out his own cigarette.

"Guy calling had some stick up his ass. We were barely making any noise," Robbie says, his voice muffled through lighting the cig.

Bob watches him. "Yeah, well." He turns his head back outside, and that's that.

Robbie is courteous about the way he smokes. He blows it up towards the ceiling rather than in Bob's face. He does it slowly, too, some sort of weird habit. Bob assumes it makes them last longer.

"I sure do miss New York, man," Bob says to the window, and it's true. He misses New York and he misses quietness. These past few months have worn him out to no end, made him feel all spent and used like a whore. His subconscious has been telling him to take a break for weeks now, that he's gone too far with everything and that he's turned into some kind of walking, singing skeleton.

Robbie nods, stares up at the ceiling and hums. "Do you miss Sara?"

Sure, Bob misses Sara: her lips, her body, making love to her... Late nights at the Chelsea hotel from that previous winter swirl around in his head nearly every night, and every time he hooks up with someone other than her. He's never met with anything but a twinge of guilt in his lower abdomen that leaves once he gets back to writing or takes a few more pills.

He has to lie to Robbie, because Robbie's one of the only few people who knows he's married to Sara. About everyone else thinks she's just his girl, if they know her at all.

"Yeah, I miss Sara." He doesn't really, not when he looks at Robbie and Robbie looks at him. Not when Robbie chooses to sit close to him in the backseat of a car, his body a warm presence against Bob's, always by his side. And certainly not when Robbie stares at him on stage, watches his fingers while he plays the guitar and catches his eye each time he turns his back to the booing audience. There's no sincerity in his voice when he says it, and he's sure Robbie catches it.

He listens to the sound of Robbie tapping out his ashes onto the hotel carpet, and licks his lips anxiously, because it goes so slow that Bob wants to rip the cigarette out of his hands and replace it with his own hand. He wants to kiss each of Robbie's knuckles and the calluses on his fingers.

"I've seen people since last seeing her, though," Bob admits, though they both already knew. "A few people."

"Oh yeah?"

Bob meets his eyes. "Yeah." He pauses, looks down at his feet, before continuing. "Couple girls, couple guys..."

Robbie raises his eyebrows. He wants to laugh, because surely it's a joke- though rumors have been spreading about Bob's sexuality- but he can't seem to let anything out. Bob purses his lips and takes another drag.

"You, uh... You slept with men?" He usually watches Bob after concerts, is often near him or practicing with him or something. A hint of envy bounces through his chest and he suddenly wants to know what men Bob could have slept with. He doesn't ask, because that's what Bob wants him to do, he wants to egg him on. He realizes that he's finished his cigarette and puts it out in a nearby ashtray.

"I did," Bob says nonchalantly, but he's eyeing Robbie with a strange expression, trying to read him. "You don't believe me?"

Robbie is staring at the floor, not sure what to do with his hands anymore. "Oh, I believe you, it's just I wouldn't've guessed, is all."

"I don't seem very queer to you." Bob snorts, then flicks the butt of his cigarette into the same ashtray. He stands, then, and hovers over Robbie. Although, he isn't really much taller, even while Robbie is sitting down on the bed, but perhaps it's because he isn't wearing his boots. He had taken them off the second he was alone and in for the night.

Bob stands close to Robbie, steps into his personal space. Robbie doesn't seem to mind, and invites him in, staring up at his employer with wide eyes. Bob reaches out and takes Robbie's arms, places them on his waist. His hands cling on, his thumbs tugging on the belt loops of Bob's pants. 

Staring down at him with droopy eyelids, Bob leans forward and stops just before their lips meet. He feels Robbie's breath catch in his throat, and laughs shortly, his breath ghosting over the guitarist's face.

Then, Bob kisses him; it's slow, and Bob feels the rough stubble against his chin, and tastes the cigarettes and cheap red wine. When he pulls back, Robbie's hand ever-so-slightly squeezes his hip.

"Do you believe me now?"

Robbie opens his eyes, his pupils dark. He lifts one of his hands and brings it up to stick in Bob's curls, then pulls him back down, intending to taste his lips again.

But he's cut short by a swift knock at the door, followed by a call of Bob's name. Bob rips himself away from Robbie as quickly as possible, practically jumps to the other side of the room, his hands on his hips.

Neuwirth allows himself inside, yet is caught dead in his tracks as he takes in the picture. "Hey, uh..."

"What?" Bob snaps, pressing his fingers to his temples in irritation.

Neuwirth glances between them, and narrows his eyes at Robbie on the bed. "Nothing... uh, I just came in to say we lit a, uh, few joints in the other room," he says, scratching the back of his head. He adds, "If you wanna come back out." 

Bob shakes his head. "I'm fine tonight."

They both look at Robbie, who shrugs. "I'm all fagged out, anyway. I should probably go to bed soon."

Neuwirth nods. Mickey calls from the other room, something loud and incoherent to Bob.

"No," Neuwirth calls over his shoulder to him, "Robbie says he's fagged out. Needs to go sleep." His tone is mocking, some sort of innuendo hid in there that Bob doesn't fully appreciate.

"Fagged out!" a shout of disbelief resonates through from the other room. "Ha!"

Bob slips into the desk chair and decides to start busying himself with writing, instead.

"Go on, Bobby," Bob waves his hand dismissively toward the door, "Go on and leave me alone."

Neuwirth doesn't seem to like the demand, but goes away nonetheless. He keeps the door ajar, which pisses Bob off to no end, as now he can hear the other room's conversations, some about him, some about the "Barnacle man" (presumably Robbie), and so forth. It brings a headache back to his temples.

He forgets that Robbie is in the room with him as he taps out a stream of words through the typewriter. Robbie passes by the desk and stops at the door, staring at Bob before giving a simple farewell and goodnight, to which Bob returns noncommittally.

The next day they drive to Edinburgh. Robbie doesn't sit next to him, but Neuwirth does. Bob doesn't care because he attempts to fall asleep for most of the way, or at least rests his eyes.

The show was fine, just like any other.

Afterwards, there's a swarm of people surrounding him as he exits the venue. Mostly young kids and teenagers, some who were probably in the crowd booing him earlier, some who weren't able to buy a ticket. Their high-pitched Scottish accents and messes of short hair fill up Bob's senses and make him dizzy. 

He's pushed forward by Albert's heavy hand on his back. He wants to rip himself apart from Albert and yell at him for shoving him, but can't seem to find the energy to.

He tucks himself into a corner of the car and plans on not talking to anyone for the extent of the ride to the hotel.

Getting a spot in the back of the car is almost like survival of the fittest. You don't get a spot, you get stuck with the swarm of fans until the next car pulls up. You do get a spot, and you're squished in between five people on one seat.

It usually happens where Bob and Albert and Neuwirth get their spots in the first car, and Robbie, who always walks ahead to get a seat next to Bob. Donn Pennebaker and a straggler from the film crew are also there, but only when Bob makes sure they are. It's a crapshoot for the rest of the band and crew.

Robbie fits himself into the opposite corner, across from Bob. It's hard for Bob not to make eye contact with him. He lights a cigarette and fidgets with his fingers as Albert whispers something about how he better get to sleep before they drive down to Newcastle tomorrow. He isn't listening but nods anyways. He's made a pact with himself to stop arguing with Albert so much, but it's grown increasingly difficult not to. Albert gets his goat so often now, probably because he notices how Bob's slowly going insane each day and is trying to wring out the last bit of juice from him before he's gone dry.

Bob supposes he would, too, had he grown up to be a manager of an almost-millionaire singer. It's part of Albert's job, and subsequently a part of Bob's own as well.

So he's keeping all of his anger towards his manager pent up inside his chest. It's not that bad, he just needs to find time to let off steam and stop snapping at people so much. His mercurial habits are something that keeps him set off and distant from everyone else nowadays. But that's probably just a side effect of the pills.

His night mostly consists of sitting at his typewriter for hours on end, twisting the hair behind his ear and chewing on his thumbnail. He finishes his pack of cigarettes, a bottle of wine, and two or three songs that are each roughly four pages long. He leans back and stares at his work, still not content with himself. He stands and stretches his bony legs, then decides to see what the rest of the crew is doing.

He doesn't fully realize how late into the night it is. In the common area of the suite, only three crew members remained awake: Neuwirth and Garth, who're playing cards and lazily discussing something unimportant, and Robbie, who is sitting alone and secluded, picking at his fingernails with a bored expression.

Neuwirth looks up when he enters and smiles. "Hiya," he says quietly. When there's no one to impress, Neuwirth can be a pretty sweet guy. He's got to be the closest to Bob out of all of them, but Robbie is slowly creeping up to that spot and has been since the Band was recruited.

"Anyone got any idea what time it is?" Bob asks, and paces around the room with an anxious aura. He's restless and doesn't understand why.

Garth places a Queen of Hearts down on the coffee table between himself and Neuwirth. He looks up to Bob, and down at his watch. "Quarter past three." 

"Man," Bob says, and finally sits himself down in an armchair. He sits very tightly, with his shoulders curled in and his elbows on his thighs. "Where did the day go?"

Neuwirth tries to crack a joke, but he's never been too great at that at this time of day. And anyways, Bob isn't really paying attention, because he glances up to watch Robbie, who hasn't even looked up from picking at his fingers yet.

Neuwirth notices this and stands. "Well, I might tap out. If it's getting so late."

Garth shuffles up their cards and puts the deck back in its case. He leaves it on the coffee table next to empty wine glasses, which are stained with a dark red hue at the neck.

Before leaving, Neuwirth comes over to ruffle Bob's curls and say goodnight. He squeezes a hand on Bob's shoulder, and it's strong, trying to tell him something, but Bob can't seem to get the message.

The door clicks softly shut and it's completely silent for a long moment, before Bob sits up.

"What's up with you?" he asks, fully directed towards Robbie. Robbie looks up and seems confused, though there's no one else in the room.

He puts his hands down in his lap. There's an awkwardly wide distance between the two of them and Bob doesn't like it much at all. "Oh, nothing."

Bob furrows his eyebrows and sits back in his chair, pulling at his ear. "Well, perhaps you're upset with what happened last night..."

Robbie is quiet, so Bob goes on.

"If you are... We can forget it happened, you know."

Robbie glances up at that. He shakes his head silently, as if he's a mute child.

"No?" Bob asks, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. "You don't wanna forget?" 

He stands and sits next to Robbie on the loveseat. Robbie blinks and shrugs, averts his eyes. "I dunno. I don't think so." He pauses, then adds, "I thought it was nice."

Bob smiles, stares at Robbie's profile, at the way his top lip juts out and his eyelashes droop. "Then why not talk to me? All day you've avoided me. Haven't heard a word from you in over twenty-four hours."

"I suppose, um... Well, they all don't like me very much already... They don't like that we're close, you know, and I didn't want to make things worse with them," Robbie says.

"Who's them?"

Robbie shrugs. "Bobby and Mickey and all them. Think I'm a leech of some sort to you."

Bob snorts. "You're no leech. You haven't sucked any blood outta me yet." He laughs, then inches closer to Robbie on the couch. "And don't worry about Neuwirth. He makes fun of just about everyone."

Robbie glances over, and they're close now, inches apart. "Oh, I know..."

Bob reaches out and pushes Robbie's hair back, away from his forehead. "Do you wanna finish what we started?" he whispers, and smiles, still petting back his hair.

"What?"

"From last night. Do you want to finish what we started," Bob repeats. His hand retreats, and Robbie blinks down at him, eyes dark and tired, but full of want.

Robbie puts a hand on Bob's thigh, which is so thin that his hand covers the front of it. "Yeah," he says, "I think so."

He hesitates, though, and uses his other hand to awkwardly hold Bob's jaw. Bob stares at him, patiently waiting, blue eyes hooded and warm. 

Robbie pulls their mouths together quite softly, just teetering on the edge of being a real kiss. Bob pushes up on him, eager for more. His hands cradle Robbie's face gently.

They slowly kiss, and Bob lets his teeth sink into Robbie's lower lip, pulling it back slightly before letting it go. He softly pecks his lips, which are swollen and a perfect cherry red now. Robbie whispers against Bob's lips, "God, that's hot..."

Impulsively, he moves to sit on Robbie's lap, their heads level enough for the guitarist to press kisses against Bob's neck, which quickly turn hot and wet. 

Bob feels his hard-on digging into his thigh and ruts down, eliciting a shaky breath from Robbie. 

"We've got to... Keep quiet," Robbie stammers out, because he can hear Albert snore in the room attached to the suite. Bob meets their lips together again, slow and open-mouthed. His fingers dip down between them and work deftly at Robbie's belt, then the zipper of his pants. "Maybe we should go to your room..." Robbie whispers, his voice small and frail.

Bob shakes his head. "We're halfway there." His throat is scratchy. "Touch me, Robbie," he quietly begs of him.

Robbie obliges, wraps his hand around both of them and jerks them off together. Bob bites his tongue and shuts his eyes, his breath coming out in short pants.

Everything is still around them, the floral curtains and the lace carpets, the soft yellow light from a floor lamp, the empty wine glasses and cigarette packs on the coffee tables; all is untouched.

There's just the two of them, and it's Robbie's hand and Bob's whispers of encouragement. Bob's cheeks turn pink and his hair sticks to his forehead, and Robbie stares up at him shamelessly. He sucks at his neck where Bob's shirt ends and his collarbone starts.

"You're lookin' to- oh, _man_ \- you're trying to give me a bruise down there?" Bob breathes out. Robbie laughs against his skin, yet stays quiet.

His hand moves faster and Bob suddenly lets out a choked, high-pitched moan, breaks the low silence they attempted to keep. Robbie's opposite hand clamps over his mouth as Bob comes into his hand, grinding down.

"My god," Bob whispers when Robbie's hand retreats from his face. He kisses his guitarist, his hand replacing the other's on Robbie's cock. He lazily strokes, still coming down from his own high. Robbie follows suit with a low groan.

Bob tucks himself back into his striped pants and stands. He finds a wad of napkins on the table, whose corners are stained with dried red wine. He wipes his hands with them, then sits back next to Robbie and wipes his. Then he crumples up and throws the used napkin elsewhere, deciding room service can pick it up when they leave for Newcastle in a few hours.

A few hours, that's right.

"Shit," Robbie curses, as if they're both thinking the same thoughts. "I'm barely gonna be awake tomorrow."

Bob hums, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. "I got some stuff to help with that, you know, if coffee doesn't work for you. I know coffee doesn't work for me, man."

Robbie eyes him, then glances down. There's a fresh, light purple bruise against the pale skin just above Bob's collarbone. "Hey, man, you're gonna have to wear a turtleneck or something tomorrow."

Bob's hand reaches up to his neck. "Is it bad?"

Robbie shrugs. "Noticeable, is all."

Bob sighs, but it turns into a sly sort of grin. He leans over and pecks Robbie on the lips, then kisses him. It lasts a couple seconds until Robbie breaks it with a yawn.

Bob leans back, his hands still resting against Robbie's neck. "Am I that boring?" he asks with a grin. One of his long fingernails twists a lock of Robbie hair around. 

Robbie shakes his head and breaks away from Bob, standing and stretching. Bob watches him, the way his brick-red button-up is tight around his slim figure and his slacks are loose around his waist. Robbie scratches the back of his head. "The opposite," he says. "But I should really go to bed."

Bob frowns. "Oh. All right. Goodnight."

"Goodnight. Try to sleep, Bobby," Robbie says, winking at him. Bob has already turned his attention somewhere else, searching for a cigarette with a capricious scowl on his face.

"Yeah, whatever." He finds one and lights it, then topples back on the sofa. He doesn't meet Robbie's eyes, near the door of the suite, which are confused and worried. "Sleep well."

Robbie murmurs a small, "you, too," before softly shutting the door behind him. Bob smokes his cigarette and stares at the wall, one hand tapping anxiously at his leg.

He waits a couple minutes, before pressing the half-smoked cig out in a nearby ashtray and going to his room. The bed, which has remained mainly unused since they checked in, sits waiting for him, calling out to him. It says, "Come, Bobby! Come sleep. Sleep and never wake up again!"

He ignores it and instead rummages around until he finds his suitcase, wherein a prescription bottle of pills lies. He takes them in the attached bathroom with the door shut, swallowing them dry and staring at himself in the mirror.

Subconsciously his hand wanders to the bruise Robbie left at the base of his neck, which is prominent against the white undershirt he's wearing. It doesn't hurt much but stirs something in his stomach, the little fault of guilt as Sara's beautiful little Playboy bunny face pops into his head. He blinks and she's gone, and he's awake again, still touching his hickey.

He wants to cry but is unable to, because he can't seem to find a reason why. He doesn't feel bad that he did that with Robbie, because at the moment, it's what his impulse told him to do.

So he doesn't.

He sticks his hands in his hair and shakes his curls out, then clicks off the bathroom light and is met again with darkness.

 


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'd like to keep you," Bob hums, pointing his cigarette in Robbie's face and grinning. He doesn't elaborate, and goes to place his guitar back in its case. 
> 
> "For what?" 
> 
> Bob rubs the back of his head, his curls long and unruly, sticking out in random directions. He smiles sheepishly. "Next time we do a big tour, or somethin'. I'd like to have you... Have you play with us, more often."

**August, 1965.**

"You're pretty good, man," Bob says, takes a smooth drag from his cigarette, and continues. "Yeah, you're great." 

The smoke blows through his nostrils and Robbie watches as it dissolves into the air between them, though it's getting harder to breathe right. He's been hired for two gigs for Bob as an electric guitar player, taken out of the Hawks' shows in Jersey. He's not too upset about it at all-- Bob's a great guy, really-- he's just nervous being up there with all those people watching him.

"Thank you," he answers. He's been pretty quiet for most of the time he's spent with Bob. This is probably just a one-time thing, after all, just temporary. He's certain Bob can find a better player than him; he definitely has enough money to.

And anyways, he doesn't wanna leave his own band for some guy who's supposed to get booed at all his concerts.

Bob doesn't really know how to play too well on electric. He's been plucking at a Stratocaster for an hour now, as they practice to an empty, wide open stadium. Fixing to play it again for the show tonight, just like Newport. ("Half electric," Bob had explained, waving his hands around, "You know, half souped-up. The first part is just me and the guitar. That'll shut them up for a bit.")

The first show is in Queens, and Bob was right to warn them.

"When you all come on," he had said to a small gathering of his backing band before the concert started, "Well,just expect anything, you know? They can boo and scream and do whatever, man, but you just keep on playin', and I'll just keep on playin' with you, you know?"

Robbie squirmed in his seat, fingering anxiously at the strings of his Telecaster. Levon elbowed him in the ribs, giving him a look, something like, 'Man, we really shouldn't be here...'

The band seems to be feeling the same. Al, who's playing keyboard, is leaning back on the wall with a tired expression.

When Bob went on for the first half of the concert, Al confided in them. "Newport was hell," he had said. He stared at his feet. "The worst show I've ever played. I think Pete Seeger's got us all on his hit-list, now..." Levon nodded solemnly. Al shrugged and looked up. "But hey, change is good, right?"

"Sure," Levon said, "If you wanna get yer ass kicked."

He was right, Robbie thinks, because Bob really seems like he wants to get his ass kicked. When the MC calls them on, they're met with an enormous encore of boos.

"Get off!"

"Traitor! Traitor!"

"Boo!"

And so on. The crowd becomes so loud and belligerent that Robbie can barely hear what sounds his guitar is making. He can only feel the vibrations of Levon's drums beating underneath his feet, and watches Bob intently as he sings. Three new songs are being debuted in their half of the concert: From a Buick 6, Tom Thumb's Blues, and Ballad of a Thin Man. Robbie isn't entirely sure exactly how to play all of them, so he looks to Harvey for guidance. Harvey's bass is a thick and heavy sound, and crosses over nicely with Robbie's blues rhythms.

At one point, Bob turns his entire back to the crowd. He grins over at Robbie, and it's the first time Robbie's seen him smile with his teeth. Usually, Bob covers up his laughs with his hands. His hands are occupied now, plucking out notes almost arbitrarily. The whole back-to-crowd thing must be some metaphor, but Robbie can't let his mind go too much into it. He can't stop watching Bob, or he'll go off and play some entirely different song.

Bob plays what must be ten minutes long of an intro to Ballad of a Thin Man on the piano. The audience seems to quiet down after a while, like a screaming, crying baby put to sleep.

Robbie wonders when it's going to end, the whole show. Though, deep down, a part of him understands why Bob's doing it: it's like Al said, for change. To go against the grain, carve a different path into the stony ground of the folk revival. He's almost glad to be a part of it, even if just for one or two shows. It's exhilarating, and at one point, the booing must stop, right?

There's a taxi service waiting for them afterwards. Bob immediately lights a cigarette and rubs his eyes. He doesn't address the booing at all, not until Albert says, "Such lovely people in the audience tonight, weren't they?", his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Oh, yeah, just great."

He's pushed into a corner with his arms and legs tightly crossed. It was pretty hot out, even in an open stadium, and Robbie's surprised Bob didn't even take is jacket off.

Despite the discontent, fans are lined up outside the venue, cheering for Bob as the car drives off. 

"That was pretty awful, if I may say," says Levon, whose leg is bouncing up and down in the seat next to Robbie's. Robbie wants to just put his hand on his thigh and hold it down-- it's making him much too anxious. 

Bob's head snaps up. "I'm real sorry about that, man. I don't choose what comes out of their mouths. I can't do anything about that."

Levon shrugs. "No, I know. I mean, we all sounded good, they just didn't seem to like it much, is all."

Bob turns to look out the window. "Yeah, we sounded really good." His voice is sincere, but dry.

Al smiles at Robbie from across the seats. He gives a little thumbs up, saying, 'Hey, this is the best reaction we could get out of him,' then drops his hand back in his lap. Robbie grins back. 

 

Bob orders three bottles of wine from room service at the hotel the very instance they get there. Levon pulls Robbie to the side and stares at him for a long while before speaking.

"No," is all he says. "I can't do that again."

"It's one show!" says Robbie, "One!"

Levon waves his hands in front of his face. "No, no and no. How can you play any good music when the crowd ain't willing to hear any of it? Man, I couldn't play nothin' good. I kept on stutterin' and fuckin' up. And they just kept right on booin'. No way I'm doin' that again."

Robbie puts his hands on his hips. He glances over at Bob, who's drinking wine and speaking to his friend Bob Neuwirth. He sighs. "We have a contract for one more show. One more, then we're done and we can go back with everyone else." 

Levon narrows his eyes. He thinks about it, then gives in with acquiescence. "One more and we're done. And I don't want anymore from this guy. You ain't makin' me stay with him, that's fer sure." He pauses, shoves a cigarette between his lips, and mutters, "He better be payin' us well..."

With another glimpse across the room, Robbie's eyes meet Bob's. The singer is watching him, sipping from his glass, leaned back on an armchair with his legs crossed. Robbie smiles at him, and doesn't get much back in return, until the end of the night rolls around and Bob drunkenly staggers up to him, placing a limp hand on Robbie's shoulder.

"You are a fine guitar-player, if I've ever seen one," Bob says, staring up at Robbie. He swallows thickly, then blinks. "You're...uh... Just. Just a great player, man, and, uh-"

Neuwirth, who has shades on even though it's nighttime and he's inside, is laughing his ass off next to them, so hard that it makes Robbie think they must be mocking him.

"Would you can it, for a minute?" Bob snaps at Neuwirth, the corners of his lips turned up slyly.

"This guy's never gonna fuckin' play for you again, man, look at his face-" Neuwirth laughs and points. Robbie draws his eyebrows together and frowns. Neuwirth's giggles die down and he whistles. "Whew. Oh, god."

Bob's hand is still on his shoulder. "Give it time, man, and those boos will turn into cheers," Bob says, and releases his grip.

Neuwirth snorts at that. "How long's that gonna take? Ten years?"

 

 

At the Hollywood Bowl six days later, they get the same reaction, but lessened. Maybe that's because California's not as hostile towards electric sets as New York City is.

Before the show starts, in the few hours of free time, Bob pulls Robbie into his hotel room.

"I've got some songs I need you to help me with..." he says, shutting the door to the room. He situates himself on the bed, bringing his Stratocaster into his lap and tuning it. He struggles with that, Robbie notices; once he begins to play, the guitar's strings wind back off pitch.

"Piece of shit," Bob mutters.

"Stratocasters," Robbie says under his breath.

Bob looks up at Robbie, who is still standing awkwardly out of place with his guitar case in his hand. "What's that?"

Robbie shrugs. "Stratocasters usually go out of tune, you know, more often, while you're playing. You should pick up a Telecaster." He sets his case on the ground and pulls out his own guitar. He tunes it quickly, then begins to pluck out bluesy notes all tangled in minor chords.

"Huh." Bob ruffles his hair and then smiles. "Maybe that's my problem." He sticks his hand in his jacket pocket to search for a cigarette, then lights it quickly.

Robbie finally sits next to him on the bed. They begin to play together, the sound of their guitars mending together as they weave in and out of melodies. At certain spots, Bob will stop playing and restart at a different place; other times, he'll hum a harmony for a song, improvising random words together, or simply saying, "I like that one."

The jamming wears out into idly fingerpicking notes. When Bob is tired, he rubs at his eyes, most of the time with the hand that has a lit cigarette stuck in between its pointer and middle finger. It makes Robbie anxious; he watches carefully, in case ashes fall into Bob's tear ducts and melt his whole face off.

"What are you thinkin' about?" Bob asks. Robbie's been struggling over a refrain and can't seem to make his fingers twist in the right way.

Robbie glances up. He stops his hands. "Nothing."

Bob's quiet for a moment, until:

"I'd like to keep you," Bob hums, pointing his cigarette in Robbie's face and grinning. He doesn't elaborate, and goes to place his guitar back in its case.

"For what?"

Bob rubs the back of his head, his curls long and unruly, sticking out in random directions. He smiles sheepishly. "Next time we do a  big tour, or somethin'. I'd like to have you... Have you play with us, more often." 

Robbie's eyes widen, and he tries to hide his excitement. Bob is watching him with a strange expression, and for a moment, they are both silent. Robbie contemplates it: he can go off and travel all those places with Bob, be by Bob's side, see the same sights and meet the same people... He can jam with him, just like now, except in some different hotel in Paris or Stockholm or- or-

Levon's face suddenly flashes behind his eyes. 'No, Robbie, I ain't doin' that again...' Robbie blinks and he stares at his hands, picking subconsciously at the callous on his fingers.

"...Unless you don't want to, man."

Robbie's head snaps back up. "No, no. I'd love to, it's just, um... Well, I can't leave my band behind..."

Bob nods solemnly. He sits back down next to Robbie, bringing his knees up to his chest, and tapping out his ashes onto the leather skin of his Chelsea boots.

"Sure, that makes sense," he says. He blinks once, twice, then a third time, before saying, "Well, they could come, too."

"I'm not so sure... Levon... He might not- I'll ask them all, when I see them..."

Bob glances up, chewing on his lip. "Okay." He pauses, then rubs his eyes, and says, "Yeah, okay."

There's a heavy knock on the door. "Leaving in ten!" Albert's thick voice resonates through the walls.

Bob stands and stretches. He leaves and disappears in the bathroom for a moment, before calling Robbie's name. "C'mere."

Robbie follows. Bob is buttoning a white collared shirt over his thin body. He nods to a small capsule of pills next to the sink.

"Do you want any? Before the show?"

Robbie stares at it. "What is it?" He picks it up, and stares at the prescription with Bob's name on it.

"Methedrine or something like that, you know. Makes you feel good," Bob answers, then flashes a quick grin, before his lips pucker back up and he shrugs a jacket over his shoulders.

Robbie taps a couple into the palm of his hand. He stares at the pills for a moment, before popping two into his mouth. He swallows them quickly, and feels nothing for a moment. Bob takes the bottle back and tucks it into a toiletry bag, zipping it up quickly.

"Good?" Bob asks. Robbie nods silently. 

He doesn't know what to feel at all, really. Nothing feels real, not even Levon's voice as they drive to the venue, with its Southern drone, or the sound of his own guitar or the boos in the crowd.His mouth is dry, his tongue like sandpaper, but he feels just as confident, if not more than last time, to be up on the stage.

 

"What are you thinkin' about?" Levon asks that night as they settle back in their room. Levon finally removes his dark shades and places them on the dresser. "Barely spoke a word to me all day."

Robbie glances up at him. He hesitates, and then says, "He wants us to go with him on his next tour. He seems to really like the way we play."

Levon's eyebrows furrow. He climbs into the bed next to Robbie, whose thin, long legs dangle over the end. He's much too lengthy to sleep on this size bed. Levon is glad that he's shorter.

"You been gettin' close to him."

Levon says it impulsively, but smiles softly, just to cover up his jealousy. He can't help but feel a hint of envy over Robbie, his closest friend, becoming close with... With some guy who gets booed every night. He thinks it's common knowledge Robbie is much too talented to get booed every night.

"We can talk about it another day, don't you think?" Robbie suggests, then reaches over Levon to turn the bedside lamp off. He murmurs a goodnight before turning his back to Levon, deciding he's had an awful long day. He can't seem to fall asleep, though, his mind racing with the possibility of what's to come; of what's to happen to the Hawks, and to Levon and him, and to Bob...

He screws his eyes shut and tries not to think about it. On the flight back to Jersey the next day, Levon doesn't bring it up. It doesn't get brought up at all until the next winter, when Levon flees to a woodshed in Arkansas, and the Hawks become Bob's. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :*


	3. 3

**May, 1966.**

"What'd you think of your last show, Bob?"  Rick asks, pushing on his sunglasses. They all wear sunglasses now, even indoors; Bob is an infectious trendsetter. Now, he sits tightly in an armchair, staring off into space. He looks as though he's passed out in his seat. His eyes are glassy and he's completely out of it, giving a blank gaze to nothing.

 

Rick coughs, then repeats himself. Bob blinks and looks over at him.

 

"What's that?" Rick starts to repeat himself for a third time, but Bob cuts him off, understanding. "Oh, it was fine."

 

They had ended quite lamely, ironically, trying to drown out the sound of the boos with a loud, unkempt and messy rendition of _Like a Rolling Stone_. The two parties, band and audience, fought to be louder than the other. They sure ended with a bang, Robbie thinks, because he's all worn out now. Any adrenaline he had on stage has drained out of him, leaving him pretty useless for conversation.

 

He's been longing for the end of the tour: to go back home, maybe, and relax for a month or two. He hasn't called his mother or family in weeks, and Levon in even longer. It fills the pit of his stomach with guilt and despair when he remembers they're playing without Levon each night.

 

The hotel suite is busy, bustling with groupies, bandmates, student reporters and anyone else that manages to get in. The walls are covered in awful patterned wallpaper and the molding along the floors and ceiling chips with aging white paint. The curtains have moth holes in them and the coffee tables are dusty and unused, except by the crystal glasses of spirits and wine of random passers-by, who set down their drinks to use their hands for something else. Glass ashtrays are stained yellow from years of use, and the ashes and cigarette butts pile higher with each minute that passes.

 

A record player is blasting _Blonde on Blonde_ , but Bob isn't listening. He's dozing off again, if you could call it that; he looks stoned as hell, eyes hazy and lifeless, chapped lips  pulled into a tight, pale line in the middle of his face. In fact, he looks dead.

 

Robbie stands with Richard and an English chick with short brunette bangs and a London accent. He isn't speaking, too weathered to engage in a conversation. He nurses a glass of cheap bourbon and glances around at the different people moving in and out of the room.

 

"Bob, the Beatles are downstairs!" someone yells. There's a cheer and the excitement in the room grows.

 

Bob doesn't even look up. "Well, invite them up, man," he says almost indignantly, reaching in the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulling out a cigarette. He lights it with shaky hands, as an old man would, his fingers stumbling over the thin match.

 

Robbie is staring at his feet when he gets a tap on his shoulder. Albert, whom for most of the night was sitting quietly with his wife in the corner, pulls Robbie away from Richard. Robbie shrugs the hand off his shoulder and takes his shades off, tucking them in his jacket pocket.

 

"Hey, won't you clean him up for me?" Albert brings his voice down to a low grumble so as to not let anyone else hear. Robbie doesn’t think anyone would care to listen to Albert anyway. Not even Bob listens to Albert.

 

Robbie scratches his jaw. He really doesn't wanna get caught up in this; Neuwirth is right there,  and he could do a fine job himself. Bob and him haven't talked, really, in a few days. Bob doesn't talk to anyone if he can’t find a reason to: he’ll go through the whole tour on his own if he had to.  At this point, Robbie wonders if Bob even likes him. "Well, how?" he asks.

 

"He's a complete mess," Albert says. Robbie flicks his eyes over at Bob, who is shaking his head at a young man with a notepad. "Take him into his room and make him... Take a hot shower, or something. Clean him up."

 

Robbie sighs, but obliges, nodding his head. Albert pats a heavy paw on his back and thanks him before going back to his wife. Of course, Robbie had to be selected to do the dirty work.

 

He hesitates for a second before approaching Bob. "Hey, Bob?"

 

Bob looks up at him. "Hey, man." He looks back down at his cigarette, tapping out the ashes onto the crushed velvet sofa. He creates a small black mark in the fabric, and taps out the sparks with the tip of his calloused finger. The student reporter left him alone, probably discontent with Bob’s noncommittal answers.

 

"Can you come with me? Just for a moment..." Robbie motions behind him, not sure where he’s pointing to.

 

Bob blinks up at him blankly, rubbing his jaw. "Why?"

 

"Uh, I wanna show you something. It'll only take a minute."

 

Bob’s hand moves up to rub his eyes. "Man, can't we do this tomorrow--"

 

"It's not about music," he says quickly.

 

Bob frowns in confusion, then finally stands and follows Robbie. They disappear from the crowd of people in the suite into Bob's hotel room. He’s mumbling about the Beatles as a line of cigarette smoke trails behind him. There’s no one in the halls this late, unless it’s people complaining to Albert about the noise or throwing up in the halls.

 

"Where are you taking me, anyway?"

 

"We need to get you washed up," Robbie says when they reach the quietness of Bob’s room. He turns to Bob with serious eyes.  

 

Bob scowls, sort of innately, and rubs at his dark eye bags with the tips of his fingers, their nails long and yellowed from cigarettes.

 

"I don't need to get washed up. I took a shower the other day." His voice is dry and worn out from screaming on stage for hours.

 

Robbie bites his lip, unsure of how to argue. When Bob doesn't want to do something, he doesn't, and that's it, end of. No one really has the power to sway him.

 

"Please, Bob," Robbie says quietly. He hates seeing him like this, stretched so thin. "Come on."

 

Bob opens his eyes and watches Robbie, then looks down at his feet. His hand comes to his lips and he chews on a fingernail for a moment, pondering. Then, finally, as if in a trance, he nods.  

 

"Yeah, okay," he murmurs almost inaudibly. Robbie goes to the large porcelain bathtub and starts the faucet. He waits for the water to get warm and changes the golden-painted handles to a hot temperature, just below scalding. Something to bake the drugs out of Bob.

 

He stands up again while the tub fills. Bob hasn't made any moves yet, and is staring as the water fills the tub slowly yet surely. His hands fall at his sides and hang there aimlessly, and he seems as lifeless as a rag doll.

 

"Um, do you want me to... undress you?" Robbie coughs awkwardly. Bob nods quietly, and Robbie nods back, then gets closer.

 

With a timid stroke, he undoes the buttons of Bob's suit jacket and shrugs it off his shoulders, then unbuttons the high-collared dress shirt underneath. Beneath that is a thin white undershirt, and Robbie wonders how Bob wasn't sweating profusely with all of the layers he has on, especially with the hot lights of the stage.

 

"Lift your arms up for me," Robbie whispers, without really knowing he is. Bob does, stretching up his thin arms above his head. Robbie pulls the shirt up and off, tossing it on the tile floors.

 

Bob never lets anyone stay in the room when he changes. He always locks himself into the bathroom when he does. Robbie wonders what he'd do in grade school when they had to change for physical education, and often laughs at the idea of Bob trying to climb the rope or run the mile. He doesn’t find it that weird, every guy likes their own privacy. But it seems like Bob is always hiding something under all the clothes he wears, the oversized suede jackets and suits that drown him in fabric.

 

Now, though, Bob is vulnerable. He's all skin and bones, sharp features like collarbones and ribs sticking out under pale, milky white skin. His chest is smooth and shakes with each breath he takes, and there is a small, barely-there trail of hair that starts just under his navel and disappears under his pants. When Robbie drops the skinny black pants, Bob steps out of them, then moves to remove his briefs. He toes off his tall black socks and tosses his burnt out cigarette butt into the toilet. Then he slowly sinks into the bath water, which is filled halfway. The only sound in the room is the glugging of the heavy faucet as it struggles to fill the tub.

 

"It's hot," is the only remark Bob makes before he submerges himself in the water, getting his long curls wet. Robbie stands awkwardly, folding a clean white towel from underneath the sink.

 

He can't help but feel a little uncomfortable. Just a couple days ago, after Bob had ignored his band members all night to awkwardly flirt with Françoise Hardy,  he had shown up again to practice in Robbie's hotel room late at night. They ended up touching again, shamelessly, with calloused hands and soft, languid kisses. Robbie cherishes the small moments Bob and himself share outside of music, even if he only came that night because he couldn’t get with anyone else. Playing with Bob is great, it's a once in a lifetime opportunity. But when Bob gives you his attention, kisses you and touches you and gets your rocks off, it's a different kind of feeling.   

 

Bob head comes up from the water and he licks his lips, his eyelids struggling to open. "You ever heard that song... it goes, uh..." He frowns. "Oh, man. I forgot." He looks up at Robbie helplessly. "Ray Charles sang it."

 

Robbie smiles. "Drown in my Own Tears?"

 

Bob nods, his lips moving up slightly, but not far enough to spread into a grin. "Yeah, that's the one."

 

Robbie sets the towel down outside of the tub. "All right, Bobby. I'm gonna go check with Albert. T'see when you can go meet up with your friends."

 

Bob groans, his fingers toying with the complimentary soap on the edge of the tub. "I don't even wanna see the Beatles. I won't know any of their names, man!" He wipes his face down, the skin stretching underneath the hands. "Don't go," he whines childishly.

 

"Hey, you don't have to if you don't want to. But I’m sure they’d love to see you again," Robbie says.

 

Bob shakes his head, droplets of bath water flinging around him. “Again? I just saw John, what, two months ago.” He sits up straight and looks up at Robbie over his bare shoulder. "Stay," he pleads, eyes wide.

 

Robbie can't resist, really, he can't. He sits beside Bob outside of the tub and screws the faucet off.

 

“All right, but not for long,” he mumbles. He reaches behind Bob's thin figure for the small bottle of hotel shampoo, then squirts a generous amount into his hands before beginning to scrub Bob's damp curls until they're sudsy. Bob leans back into it, sighing contentedly. Robbie stares at the notches in Bob’s boney spine, as he sits with his knees tucked under his chin, facing the wall. When Robbie removes his hands, he dips underneath the water to wash the bubbles out.

 

"Good?" Robbie asks.

 

"Your fingers..." Bob says when he sits up again, then takes one of Robbie's hands and kisses the knuckles along his crooked fingers. He sucks two digits in his mouth, staring up at Robbie with hazy eyes.

 

"Not now, Bobby," Robbie says quietly, pulling his fingers out. Bob's eyebrows thread together for a moment, looking to argue or turn away, but he can't seem to find the energy to. He pulls up his knees in the bath and leans his chin on them, and he suddenly looks so small and fragile and ingenuous that he couldn’t hurt anyone if he tried.

 

Robbie moves the wet curls out of his face, pushing them back behind his ears.

 

"We haven't touched in four days," he comments. He blinks his eyes closed and laughs, but not really; it's breathy and nondescript. "Not since Paris," he snickers, then adds, "The city of love."

 

Robbie doesn't want to answer. He can't find any answer, even if he wanted to. He shuts his mouth and sits back on his heels, pressing his hands against his thighs and smoothing out the fabric of his pants.

 

Bob leans back. "If you don't get in here with me I might as well drown myself," he says, grinning slightly, with a dry atmosphere that Robbie hates. Bob swishes around the warm water to prove his point. “C’mon, man. Don’t be so square.”

 

 There's barely enough room for Bob to sit with his knees pulled up, let alone Robbie's six-foot build.

 

Bob begins to blow into the water, watching it ripple outwards. He does it three or four times before Robbie rises again, can't stand to watch any longer.

 

"I'll be right back," he says, then leaves before Bob can protest.

  


He finds himself looking for Albert back in the suite. Everyone he passes asks him where Bob went, and he can't answer any of them. Albert is talking to a tall British man at the far end of the room.

 

When Albert notices him, he scowls. "What the fuck's taking so long?"

 

Robbie puts his hands up helplessly. "He should be ready in a couple minutes." He turns to the other man, whom he assumes is the band's manager, and shakes his head. "I'm sorry to keep you all waiting, man."

 

"It's all right," the man says, smiling politely.

 

"Where should he go once he's ready?"

 

The man answers, "Oh, they're downstairs in the lobby. I asked of the workers to not let any fans inside, so for a while they should be all right down there. They don't want to come up just yet, only want to pay their respects to Dylan."

 

Robbie nods. "Yeah, all right. Okay, I'll go tell him that."

 

"Tell him to get his ass down there," Albert says grumpily, and takes a harsh gulp of his wine.

 

Robbie nods. On his way back, he nervously cracks his knuckles, wondering what would happen if Bob blew off the Beatles of all people.

 

"Hey, Bob," he starts when he enters the bathroom again, shutting the door behind him, "So, they're all downstairs-!"

 

He couldn't have been gone more than ten minutes, but Bob is inundated with water, sunk deep in the bath, with only the tips of his bony knees sticking above it. Bob's face is distorted under the water, but Robbie sees his eyes are closed, and the water is starting to bubble. His heart stops beating and he stands rooted for a split second before he rushes to the tub and pulls Bob out, sitting him upright.

 

"Christ!" Robbie mutters, waiting for a reaction from Bob, tapping his back. "Come on, you loon."

 

Bob coughs, spitting out soapy water. Robbie pats his back and waits before he speaks.

 

"Shit, Bob! Why would you do something like that?" he says, indignation flooding his voice as the water would have flooded Bob's lungs. His grip on Bob's shoulder tightens, and he lets go quickly; if he didn't, he might've broken a bone.

 

Bob only shrugs. "Dunno."

 

Robbie stands up and holds his hair, looking up at the ceiling. He shakes his head. "My god," he says, calmer now, but still in a state of shock, "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

 

Bob coughs again and begins to make whirlpools in the water with his finger. "Sorry."

 

Robbie shakes his head again. He rubs his eyes and mumbles, "What is wrong with you, man? I don't understand."

 

Bob stands up from the tub and tip toes out, a trail of water following him. He reaches for the folded towel and rubs his face with it. Before tying it around his waist, he stares up at Robbie, searching for something with tired but earnest blue eyes.

 

"Robbie, man..." he says, then leans up and kisses him chastely, using his hand at the base of Robbie's neck to bring him down. "There's so much you don't know."

 

He picks his clothes up from off the floor and leaves. After a moment, Robbie follows him.

 

A sharp, furious knock comes to the door. "Great going!" Albert's voice shouts from the hallway. Bob groans, pulling on a clean mock-neck shirt. "You ditched the fuckin' Beatles, asshole!"

 

When fully dressed, Bob opens the door. "I don't give a shit," he says bluntly to Albert, then shuts the door punctually.

 

He tosses himself on the bed and rolls over to use the telephone. Robbie watches as the man orders two bottles of wine off of room service.

 

"Are you stayin' or goin'?" Bob asks, lighting a cigarette nonchalantly.

 

"What do you want me to do?" Robbie wishes for a moment that he wouldn't sway at every word Bob says.

 

Bob sits up on his knees. He ponders for a moment, then pats the space next to him on the bed. Robbie toes off his shoes and sits on the comforter, and it isn't long before Bob's hands are all over him, touching and feeling with a tired pace.

 

Bob tastes like dry cigarettes. Cold droplets of water from his hair drip onto Robbie's skin every couple of seconds, between long kisses and heavy breaths. It's slow and lazy, and when they share the cheap wine it becomes even more idle, kisses turn bittersweet and lips turn a deep red.

 

"I want you..." Bob breathes suddenly, his voice a bit shaky as he tugs softly on the collar of Robbie's shirt. "I want you to… Stay, here..." He trails off, and Robbie doesn't make a move on him until he's asked to.

 

He gazes at him in the dim light of the hotel room. Bob's nose swoops up from his face gracefully like the neck of a swan, and dips back down into his lips. His eyelashes flutter daintily over his cheeks, small curtains over his brilliant blue eyes. He's watching Robbie, questioning what he wants to do next; they never talk about these sorts of things, it often just happens when it happens.

 

Finally, after a low silence, Robbie says, "You're prettier, I think, than any chick I've gone with." It's drunk and cheesy and even brown-nose-y, but Robbie supposes that’s what he’s known for anyway.

 

Bob laughs at it, the first genuine laugh Robbie's heard from him in a couple days. "Jesus, man. How many girls have you gone with?"

 

Now, as they lay on their sides, watching each other, they laugh. They laugh until it dims down to nothing, really, but a content quietness. Robbie carefully slings his arm around Bob's waist and gently pulls him closer, until they're noses touch and he can feel the other's breath mingle with his own.

 

Bob kisses him again, a languid and lazy kiss, idly running his tongue over Robbie's lower lip so he can taste more of the bitter alcohol.

 

"You must be tired," Robbie whispers then, staring at the magnified features: the dark circles around Bob's eyes, the outline of his lips, the soft, barely-there summer freckles. "You must be the tiredest man I've ever met."

 

Bob's eyes open and he stares into Robbie's without a real answer. He doesn't move out of Robbie's touch, surprisingly. He lets his heavy eyelids flutter, then, just as he lets himself fall into the crook of Robbie's neck to kiss the soft, pale skin there, he says, so soft it's almost inaudible, "I am."   
  



	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's 1965 again, back when the hawks first began playing with bob.

**Fall of 1965.**

Robbie stares ahead, trying to conceal his excitement. Beside him, Bob Dylan is smoking a cigarette. They're in a taxi being driven to the center of Toronto, Robbie's home city, to show Bob what it's like in Canada. His girl, Sara, came along too. Last night, they’d watched Levon and the Hawks play a show. They had to finish a couple engagements up in Toronto before Bob’s upcoming tour dates.

 

“The Hawks, huh?” Bob asks, rubbing his eyes underneath his shades, “Yeah, I remember picking up one of Ronnie’s records a couple years back…” There’s an empty space between him and Robbie. Across from Robbie, Levon sits miserably, leaning on his hand and staring out the window.

 

It's 1965. They have just finished Bob’s show at the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles. Bob flew the Hawks up to Toronto for a couple days just to practice his songs for the next couple of shows he has.

 

“Ronnie got boring after a while,” Robbie says, “We decided we should go off and do our own thing without a real frontman, you know, for a little while.”

 

Bob hums.

 

Levon looks over at Robbie, and his clear blue eyes narrow. “He didn't get borin’ or nothin’, we jus’ din’t wanna play rockabilly anymore.”

 

Robbie nods. “Right. We got into more, uh, soul stuff, you know, bluesy,” he explains, his ears getting hot from embarrassment. He doesn't meet Levon’s eyes again. “Probably around the same time you released Freewheelin’,” he adds.

 

Bob takes a drag of his cigarette and turns to look at the tall brick buildings of Toronto under the gray sky. “Yeah, all right. Wow, you musta had fun with Ronnie Hawkins.”

 

Levon huffs. “Lotsa fun, man. Shows every night, we met the greatest of the greats-- Why, we met nearly e’ry great there is, huh, Robbie? Even before you came around… We met B.B. King, Buddy Holly, you know, jus’ ‘bout all of them… Anyways, Ronnie was a great musician, jus’ ‘bout everyone knows that,” he gushes. He looks so nostalgic of those times, those Southern summers of the late fifties, that Robbie feels a knot in his stomach tighten. He closes up, and feels a little bit young and misplaced, like an uncomfortable fifteen-year-old all over again.

 

Levon continues, “And you shoulda seen the girls we had every night… They were real purty, huh, Robbie? Well, Robbie never took many girls back to his room, anyway.” Levon smiles teasingly. Bob doesn't seem to care about the girls, because he points at a storefront and starts to talk about something else.

 

After a moment, as Robbie sullenly picks at his fingernails, he feels Levon poke him with the toe of his shoe. When he looks up, Levon is smiling at him, just slightly, then he mouths a _sorry_ , and turns back to his window.

 

Bob asks the cab driver to pull over at a music shop. When Robbie climbs out, Levon doesn't move.

 

“You go ahead, I’ll just go a little downtown an’ grab a bagel or somethin’ real quick, an’ I'll meet you later.”

 

Robbie says, “Well, we're having lunch with him and Sara soon, remember?”

 

“Sure, I know. I'll be there.”

 

Robbie nods and shuts the car door. Bob gets a head start into the shop. When Robbie catches up, he's studying an electric guitar pinned to the wall.

 

“You said Telecasters are better?” Bob asks Robbie, but he doesn't look away from the Fender.

 

Robbie nods. “Oh yeah,” he says, “I've got this one, the one you were using the other day.” He points to a different guitar on the wall. Bob turns his attention to it.“She's not too flashy, but gives a great sound.”

 

He looks up at Robbie. “You've gotta teach me more, man. I'm too new. For this next tour, you know, I hope to be at least a little good at it by then.”

 

He turns around and spots one of the clerks, beckoning the young man to come over. He is _young_ , with acne on his cheeks and long, unruly hair. He seems dumbstruck to be less than a foot in front of Bob Dylan.

 

“Hey, man, could we get this one right here?”

 

The clerk stares at Bob for another few seconds before swallowing and nodding, turning to take the guitar off of the pegs on the wall.

 

“Is there anything else you want, sir?” the boy stammers out, staring at his feet. Robbie wonders if that's what he looked like when he first met Bob.

 

“Nah, that's all right,” Bob answers, and goes to look at the records pinned to the wall.

 

As the boy wraps up the guitar and places it in a case, Bob strolls around the store.

 

“Where’d you grow up again? Around here?”

 

“An hour or so South,” Robbie says, leaning against a table display of guitar strings. “at the Six Nations Indian Reserve.”

 

Bob looks up. “You're Indian?”

 

“My mother is.”

 

“Man, I woulda never guessed that.” They go to pay for his guitar, and he continues to talk as he hands the clerk his payment, scribbling his signature in a checkbook and cleanly ripping it out. “Hey, that’s awesome, man. Tell you what, you'll see my mom soon. She just landed this morning. Sara went to pick her up.”

 

Robbie nods, a little surprised. “I'd love to meet her. Did your father come up, too?”

 

Bob takes the guitar and handles it as if it isn't brand new, hanging it from his fist and swinging it back and forth as they exit the music shop. He waves his hand off at Robbie. “Oh, I haven't seen my dad in years.”

 

Robbie could understand that. He hasn't ever met his own father, and his stepfather he hasn't seen in five years.

 

“You know how dads get,” Bob says, smiling.

 

“Yeah, I do.”

 

They end up at a small French-Canadian cuisine restaurant in the middle of the city. Bob uses the telephone to tell Sara where they should meet. Eventually, Sara and Bob’s mother, Beatty Zimmerman, meet them. Bob kisses Sara on the cheek and whispers something in her ear before they sit down. Robbie gets acquainted with Beatty, introducing himself.

 

“You're a fine young man,” she says, patting his cheek. She turns to her son. “Isn't he handsome, Bobby?”

 

Bob looks up from the menu. Robbie notices his hand resting upon Sara's, and a shiny golden band wraps around Sara’s ring finger like a crown.

 

“Yeah, he’s handsome,” Bob agrees noncommittally, then grins as Robbie’s face gets hot.

 

“Much more handsome than you,” Beatty adds, then laughs the way an old woman laughs, patting Robbie's thigh next to her. She fixes her hair, which is curled into tight brown ringlets around her ears. She looks much older than she is. She can't be more than 50 years old, but looks just about 60. Thin wrinkles dip around her smile lines and eyebrows, and sparse white hair is hidden within the brown curls.

 

Levon, Garth, Richard and Rick finally sit at the table. They quickly slip into engaging conversations with the rest of the entourage, and Robbie feels small as he picks at his lunch. He notices some of the boys watching Sara, as if they'd never seen a girl before. They don't make a move on her, not unless they really wanna get fired. It isn't Ronnie Hawkins they're dealing with anymore, anyway, and they know that.

 

Sara smiles and observes them all, dipping into conversations when she believes she has something important to say. She's a pretty girl, Robbie thinks. Not that he would ever touch her, he wouldn't do that to Bob. But she sure is pretty, with dark hair and pale skin and rosy cheeks, like a real-life Snow White. Her thin, 1920’s eyebrows make her sad, doe eyes much bigger than they really are. She could, if she wanted to, persuade anyone to do anything.

 

But she doesn't say much. Bob will sometimes turn to her and invite her into short conversation. It would start with Bob leaning into her, saying, “What’s up?”, or, if she hadn't spoken in a while, “Everything all right?” He would say it very quietly, and make sure he looked her in the eyes. She would nod and take a sip of her drink and whisper something like, “I'm just not in the mood to talk,” and he would respond with a grin, and say, “Well, it's a good thing you're not in show-business.” Then he'd squeeze her hand and lock their fingers together for a long while until he lit a new cigarette and needed them again. He respected her privacy and didn't push her to speak when she didn't want to.

 

Beatty, on the contrary, is a riot. She, like Bob, has striking blue eyes and mercurial habits, but if you’re charming enough she likes you. She laughs much louder than Bob, though, and is very touchy. She rests her newly-manicured hand on an uncomfortable Rick's shoulder for a long while after she finishes eating. Rick's face is so funny that Robbie wishes he had a camera to snap it. He thinks even Bob gets a kick out of watching it.

 

“Where'd you get your suits?” she asks him, pulling at the tweed jacket that Rick wears.

 

“A guy based here in Ontario,” Rick says, and messes with the buttons of the jacket. “What's his name, Robbie?”

 

Robbie sets down his drink. Beatty looks up at him. “Lou Myles, great guy.” He turns to Bob. “You should check him out, Bob, really. I'll hook you up with him. He’s a fantastic tailor.”

 

Bob simply nods, but Beatty is ecstatic. “Oh, for sure he will. Bobby, you'd look so handsome in a suit like this.”

 

“I'll think about it,” Bob says, and sits back with his arm slung behind Sara’s chair.

  


That night, they stay at the Warwick hotel. Bob and Sara share their own room in a charming suite at the end of the hall. Robbie embarrassingly finds out when he knocks on Bob’s door in search of Levon, who must've been out at a show or something. Bob had loudly grumbled before opening the door, his shirt messily buttoned and his hair thrown about.

 

Robbie had looked down at him, stammering. “Uh, you haven't seen Levon… have you?”

 

Bob rubs his face. His lips are red and raw, and his eyes are hazy. Robbie feels something stir in his stomach when he sees Bob like this. “No, man, I haven't seen him.”

 

He goes to close the door, and when he does, he mutters, “I should get a do-not-disturb sign, or something…"

 

The next day, Robbie teaches Bob in detail all the ropes to playing the Tele. He does it out of courtesy more than anything, because he can't remember a time when anyone in a band would help him. Not since he was first learning. Well, Levon would teach him plenty, but that was before Ronnie Hawkins left.

 

They spend hours bent over the guitars. It's nice playing with Bob, it's laidback and groovy. It makes Robbie feel at home, especially when Bob pauses to say some memory from a couple of years ago or a random joke that came to his head. Robbie would pause to start some story about playing with Ronnie Hawkins, but he never seems to finish them right. Or at least, he can never deliver punchlines like Ron could. Bob still appreciates his effort, he thinks. He gets more of a smile out of Bob than anyone else can.

 

Yeah, Bob’s a real treasure to play with.

 

“You like my mom?” he asks as he strums a chord.

 

“Which one?” Robbie jokes.

 

Bob laughs, and points his cigarette at him. “My real mama. You're funny.”

 

Robbie smiles sheepishly and looks back down. “Yeah, she was great. You have her eyes.”

 

Bob scoffs. “Jesus, that's what everyone says. I'm not like her, though. She’s insane, man.”

 

Robbie thinks he's a little like her, when he's on his own. Bob can shy into a tight shell when he's with a lot of people, but he opens up one on one. He smiles more and talks more and is, in the end, much kinder and affable.

 

“What about your mom?”

 

Robbie smiles. “Oh, I should go visit her, shouldn't I?” He let's go if the guitar and plays with his hands in his lap. “My mom’s the best woman I know. She’d love you,” he says, “and she'd cook you a five-course meal if you came along to visit.”

 

Bob takes a long drag and watches Robbie with a strange expression on his face.

 

“I have a picture of her, actually…” Robbie says, and pulls out his wallet. Inside the leather casing is  photo of a young American Indian woman, her eyes gleaming in a glorious smile.

 

“Wow,” Bob says, and whistles. “I would have never guessed she’s your mother, man. Hey, you've got good genes.”

 

Robbie shrugs, but Bob insists.

 

“You do, I mean, look at you. You've got that colorful side, you know, that musical side.” He waves his hand around and takes another drag of his cigarette. 

 

“Thanks, man," Robbie says back, then adds, "You're not too bad yourself." 

 

Bob grins and laughs. “Shut up, man.” He sets his guitar in his lap and stretches his arms up, cracking his knuckles behind his head.

Robbie grins and soon they go back into the throes of melodies and chords, major and minor and diminished and augmented, all blending into one another as Bob’s fingers get accustomed to the strings of the  new guitar, and as the strings bend and twist flexibly with Bob’s playing. Robbie could stay like this for hours, playing and stopping and talking and playing again, the most down-to-earth jamming session he’s ever had. They speak of everything from music to politics to girls to old memories.

  
  
  
  


“Hey, man, are you by yourself? Anybody with you?”

 

Robbie grips the phone and glances over at Levon across the hotel room, who's reading a newspaper, his hand grasping at a glass of orange juice. “No, why?”

 

He hears a shaky breath over the line. "...my girl Sara, well, we're expecting soon, in a couple months actually... and I thought, well,  we might as well get married sooner rather than later..."

 

"Congratulations, man, that's really great!" Robbie says, and clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he stares at his shoes.

 

"I was wondering…” he says, his voice steady, “if you'd like to, uh, come up and see us. We need a witness. You know, like a witness when you sign  the papers for when you get married..."

 

Robbie stares at his feet and smiles. He checks back to Levon, who is tapping his fingers against the edge of the kitchen table to a beat he can't seem to recognize. Then, quiet enough for him to be out of earshot, says, "You mean like a best man?"

 

Bob laughs. “Well, I don’t know about ‘best man.’ That’s quite a commitment. Maybe ‘good man’ or ‘very good man.’ How would that be?”

 

“Well, when do you want me over?”.

 

He hears Bob call out to someone, wait a moment, then get back to the phone. "Next weekend. Albert says we can have it at his house up in New York State."

 

Richard enters the kitchen, wiping the sleep out of his eyes. "Who's on the phone?" he asks Levon, and who gives a shrug. He repeats himself to Robbie.

 

Robbie ignores him. He's too caught up in concentrating on the spiral of the cord that the telephone is attached to, twirling it around his finger anxiously. "Well, I'd love to," Robbie is saying, "Yeah, that sounds like a plan. Thank you. Ba-bye, now."

 

He replaces the phone and sits back at the table. Levon is eyeing him with suspicion.

 

"Hey, we don't have any shows after we're back up in Toronto, right?" Robbie asks Richard.

 

"Well, I believe we're going back down to Ohio, then up to New York… if I'm certain." Richard sips at his mug of coffee. "Why? You seeing your mom? Is she sick?"

 

Robbie shakes his head. "No, nothing like that."

 

"Well, who was that on the telephone?" asks Levon.

 

"Um, Bob. He's asking to see me him for some rehearsal… before he starts recording that new album he's been writing." Robbie feels awful lying, but can't seem to think of anything else to say.

 

Levon sits up. He narrows his eyes and puts his hands face up on the table. "I thought he was recordin' that in the winter-time."

 

Robbie shrugs. "I dunno." He twirls his finger along the rim of his coffee cup.

 

"You dummy," Richard says to Levon, "They've gotta practice the songs before he records them. He doesn't just make up the songs right there on the spot."

 

"All right, all right. I jus' didn't know. Thought it was weird. Callin' at nine o'clock on a Saturday… Askin' for him a month in advance an' all. Dunno."

 

Richard snickers. "It is the first time Bob's ever planned something in his life.” He pauses, then adds, "Well, what're you gonna do? He's an odd duck, isn't he?"

  


There are two New York shows in the days leading up to Bob and Sara's wedding: one in Buffalo, one in Syracuse. On the morning of, Robbie realizes he's never been to a wedding before. He doesn't know what to wear, if he should get his shoes polished, or what to do to his hair. He figures he's never seen Bob in so much as an ironed pair of pants, so he can't get too mad if Robbie doesn't have a tuxedo suit.

 

The drive to Albert’s home from where the band is staying is long and quiet. Thank god they're already in New York from the last two shows; Robbie doesn't know what he'd do if he had to catch a  flight from Toronto, or sit alone with Bob on the private jet for three hours. He listens to the national public radio and hums the lines of pop songs as they come on, taps his feet and curls his fingers around the steering wheel. He wishes he had someone to talk to, but is content with taking the scenic route if it means Bob is at the end of it.

 

And Bob is; he's waiting for Robbie at Albert's home near Woodstock, and gloriously hugs him when he arrives. It catches Robbie off guard-- Bob has never greeted anyone with a hug before, not even his own mother, from what Robbie's seen.

 

"Thanks, so much for coming, man," he says, then invites Robbie inside. It's got to be the most untraditional thing he's ever seen, so much that there isn't even a rabbi to marry them.  

 

He's pulled into a guest room where Bob has laid out dress shirts and ties on the bed. His hair is uncontrollable and the dark circles under his eyes make him out to seem like he just woke up. Robbie can't help but stare, because Bob has a bounce in his step that brings him up with every click of his boot heels.

 

"Which one, huh? Pink? I got this one overseas, man, I don't know what I'm gonna do with it..." He's holding up ties to his suit-- which isn't a suit so much as a white dress-shirt and black slacks-- and staring in the mirror.

 

"Both look great," Robbie says after a while. Bob tosses the pink ties and opts for an olive-green checkered one. Robbie stands behind Bob in front of a full length mirror, and nods his head. "Yeah, go with that one."

 

Bob turns around to face him, pushing up his glasses. He doesn't wear his glasses often, Robbie notices, unless he really needs to. Robbie thinks he looks quite different with them on. Like some sort of young college student studying politics or agricultural practices or economics or something. Not anything like a rockstar. "You like it?" he asks, tying the silk tie around his neck.

 

"Sure. I'm just glad we don't have to wear those tuxedos. With those black ties."

 

Bob snorts, rubbing at his eyes. "Yeah, well. Don't want us lookin' like the Beatles while I'm gettin' married, man."

 

Robbie laughs, and Bob eyes him carefully.

 

"Hey, sorry for the quietness of this whole, uh, ordeal. I woulda invited Bobby but I know his big mouth would've blabbed about it all over the place," Bob says. Robbie shrugs. He hasn't thought about Neuwirth at all, not until Bob brought him up. It makes him a little sad, a little distant, that had Neuwirth been able to, he would've been chosen over himself. At the same time, Robbie feels pretty delighted that he's here and Neuwirth isn't. He's not sure why that is, and it makes him feel bad, but he doesn't regret it.

 

"Your secret's safe with me," Robbie says.

 

Bob laughs. "Not really a secret, just something I wanna keep private for a while." He starts to put away the clothes he had spread out.

 

"Isn't that what a secret is?"

 

Bob glances up. "I suppose so, yeah." He grins, then turns on his heel into the closet.

 

After a moment of silence, he goes, "I have no idea how I'm gonna kiss her."

 

Robbie looks up. "What do you mean?"

 

Bob faces him. "Well, I don't know what I'm gonna do. I've no idea how to go about doin' that at a real wedding."

 

Robbie is a bit befuddled. He sits on the edge of the bed. "Just kiss her how you normally would."

 

Bob shakes his head. "It's not like that-- I don't know if it's like uh, sweep-her-off-her-feet kinda thing. Or if I should dip down or... I dunno. What would you do?"

 

"I'd just dip her down--"

 

"Can you show me?" Bob asks, his voice calm but his eyes mercurial and a little anxious.

 

"Well how?"

 

"Well, on me."

 

Robbie stands up again, slowly approaching the shorter man. Bob is looking up at him, blue eyes watching, egging him on, letting them get to him. "I'd probably just hold her, you know..." Robbie places his hands timidly on Bob's narrow hips, yet Bob doesn't flinch like he thought he would. "Like this, and then dip her back...you know, just a little bit." He does, steadily holding Bob in his hands. "And then... you know, then I'd kiss her."

 

He stares for just a moment and he's sure his ears are bright red, but he can't be bothered to care. Bob is gazing up at him, his eyes a pretty blue and his lips pursed. His fingers are intertwined at the base of the guitarist's neck, hanging like a pendent.

 

Robbie finally brings the man back up, and Bob coughs out a laugh. "Well, uh... maybe I'll-- maybe I'll try that with her, man."

 

Fifteen minutes later, Albert finds the two and leads them outside, to a tall oak tree whose leaves are colored orange and yellow with the season. There aren't any chairs set up, yet Albert stands in front of the tree, waiting for Bob. Robbie wonders whether the manager is even ordained to wed Bob and Sara.

 

"Sara should be comin' out soon," Bob says to Albert.

 

"No, she's fleeing from her wedding day. Saw her driving down the thruway on the way here," Albert says sarcastically. He smiles afterwards, with beady eyes that make Robbie feel squirmy and uncomfortable.

 

Robbie, without being instructed where to sit, stands behind his employers. He figures he's got to be here as Bob's best man and anyways, there aren't any chairs in front of the tree. He still feels a little bit honored at the gesture, but wonders if Bob would rather have someone else stand beside him as he gets married.

 

He's only met Sara a couple times, but she is just lovely. Just like Bob, he thinks, with some unspoken air of confidence, yet also a shyness, a reclusive side that only speaks when she needs to. She arrives wearing a long, bohemian knit dress over a turtleneck sweater, her hair delicately pinned up above her ears. She's grinning wide, holding dried wildflowers in her hands. It seems as though this wedding wasn't even planned ahead at all.

 

There's no music as she walks down the isle, and a part Robbie wants to crack a sly joke about playing one of Bob's records instead. He's practically the only other member of the aggregation, aside from Albert's wife Sally, who wears a mid-length rust-colored dress, the same shade as the fall leaves.

 

When Bob and Sara begin exchanging vows, Robbie feels his stomach turn to liquid. He stands with his hands clamped behind his back and listens, wishing that he could just go back and see Levon and Richard and Garth and Rick again...

 

"...And, you know...You're the first girl-- uh, woman-- that I've ever really felt... uh, man, well, you're the first to ever make me stutter like this."

 

Robbie thinks that's untrue, Bob earns a laugh from Sara and Sally, both of whom have started crying, their tears laced with black mascara. He's grinning, not hiding his bad teeth, beaming down at his fiancé with such felicity that Robbie wants to cry, too. It’s kind of touching.

 

"When I first met you," Bob continues, "I knew I would spend the rest of my life with you. I know, people say that all the time, but I really did-- I left and I said to myself, 'I'm gonna marry her, just you wait until I marry her'... And here we are now."

 

Sara wipes her eyes. "Oh, you never told me that..." She sniffles and grins back at him.

 

"Bob," Albert's heavy voice begins, and Robbie's done for, holding back his thoughts, his inkling of jealousy deep in his abdomen, and all of his feelings, "Do you take Sara to be your lawfully wedded wife, forsaking all others, until death parts you?"

 

Robbie stops listening up until their rings are exchanged and Albert pronounces them husband and wife and shouts, "Kiss!" and they do, and  it's a glorious moment as Bob bends over delicately to catch and hold Sara's lips against his own, his hands at her waist, in the same stance as Robbie had practiced on him before.

 

When they stand upright again, Sally claps, and then Albert, and Robbie supposes he should, too, so he does. He claps and laughs and grins and puts on a face for Bob.

 

That night, Sally makes brisket and they eat it at a large wooden kitchen table with a long red runner and tall orange and gold candles. The table is so large that if they were to all spread out, they'd each be over a foot away from each other. It's set with extra placings as if she were expecting more people. The room is painted a deep maroon and the chandelier is golden and hangs above their heads like a large crown.

 

"To Bob and Sara," Albert says, holding up his glass of whiskey on the rocks.

 

They all hold up their drinks and repeat, and the clinking of the glasses succeeds. When Robbie clinks his glass against Bob, he catches the newly-wed's eyes, and they stare back at him icily.

 

"It was a wonderful ceremony. I love small weddings, so intimate," Sally says, with a sip of her pinot noir. Sara nods.

 

"I agree!" Sara says, and grins over at her husband, who finally tears his eyes off of Robbie and clings onto her arm.

 

Sally smiles. "Where are you two thinking of settling down? If you are planning to settle, that is." She winks at Bob.

 

"Oh, my traveling gypsy. He doesn't know yet."

 

Bob's hand combs through Sara's dark curls. "I can't go anywhere my band isn't at." He glances over at Robbie.

 

"Well, you can't stay at the Chelsea forever," Albert says. Bob gives him a stink eye.

 

"I'm still thinking about it. Maybe we'll move up here, just to get a kick out of buggin' you."

 

Albert snorts and nurses his whiskey. He sits like a bear in a throne at the end of the table, his giant paws resting against the edge of the thick wood.

 

"Maybe."

 

Robbie looks down at his brisket and pokes, knowing it's rude to not eat his dinner, but can't seem to find any appetite. And besides, brisket was never Robbie's favorite; it reminds him too much of barbecues that Levon would take him to down South where they smoke all of their meat and you end up eating it with your hands. Or perhaps it reminds him of his Jewish aunt and uncle's dinners that they were invited to even after his dad died. He can't remember exactly where the memories attached to certain foods come from, but the smokey-meat was never very appetizing to him at all.

 

Sally doesn't seem to mind and takes his plate away with a friendly smile, saying, "That's why you're so thin, you don't eat much of anything!" and laughing sweetly.

 

After dinner, Sally and Sara and Bob dance around the house to old Sinatra, Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire records, a generation of music way ahead of Robbie's time, and at least a couple beats before Bob and Sara's, too.

 

Sara twirls in her knitted skirt and Bob takes off his tie but keeps on his boots. Sally's hair flows like a long black veil behind her face, her tall legs swiftly touching jazzy baselines. Robbie watches them from a distance, deciding to make himself a cup of tea and keep out of their way. He was never much of a dancer, anyway.

 

As he waits for the tea bag to brew, and the water to cool, he notices Albert sitting in an armchair with a new glass of whiskey. He, too, is watching the younger couple and his own wife. In his beady little eyes, Robbie sees something familiar; some sense of jealousy, a desire to be young and free again, mixed with a sort of pride.

 

On Robbie's way back to the hotel suite near Woodstock, he listens to the radio and winds down twisty roads, and he isn't sure when he started, but by the time he gets back he's silently crying.

 

Levon asks him what's wrong as soon as he gets into the room. Robbie had wiped his tears away but his face is still flushed and his eyelids are puffy.

 

"Allergies are killin' me," he mumbles, and secludes himself to a corner with his guitar for the night, playing around with minor chords and humming things he thinks Bob could maybe find words to in the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna be going back and forth between years, so sorry if it's a little bit confusing!!


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Levon tells Robbie he's leaving.

**December, 1965.**

An old bluesy record, something Bob had thrusted over to him in the music store last week, is spinning around on Robbie’s player. He’s tired, sitting alone in his flat. It’s a Tuesday night. Usually, Bob would have called him to make plans downtown, in the Village, or at a party, or somewhere. But the phone didn't ring once tonight. 

 

He hates being alone. It's agonizing. He has friends he could call up, sure, and he _can_ go down and see a show and meet a girl that would come home with him, if he wants to. But he resents doing it alone. 

 

Bob must be spending time with Sara tonight. Bob’s got two sides: the outrageous, loud, ambitious side, and the well-grounded, calm side. It's interesting to see both in such a short amount of time. 

 

Robbie's already wasted the night away, watching an old film on the small television he owns, reading books recommended to him months ago, flipping through the pages of music magazines Bob is starting to show up in. Listening to new music and sometimes practicing along by ear.

 

_What to do, what to do._

 

He finds himself getting idler with each passing minute. 

 

At around ten o’clock, there's a knock on his apartment door.

 

He opens it to see Levon, bundled up in a long coat, his pointy nose red at the tip, and his hands shoved inside his pockets. “Hey, man,” he mumbled softly, and he doesn't meet Robbie’s eyes. “Can I come in?”

 

At first, Robbie is alarmed. He thinks, _Fuck, someone died. I know someone died._ And feels the pit in his stomach twist at the thought. _Was it Rick? Richard?_ No, someone would've called him by then _. His mom?_ No _. Levon’s sister? Maybe._

 

Robbie opens the door for him, and he struggles in, undoing his jacket. Robbie sits back down and watches him, waiting for him to say something, but Levon seems distant, far-away, like he isn't really present. 

 

Finally, he settles down next to Robbie and lights a cigarette. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Robbie asks gently, unsure of what this is all about. 

 

Levon looks up at him, passing him the cigarette. He leans in and says, “I'm leavin’ tonight, Robbie. I can't do this no more.”

 

Robbie leans back, astounded. “What?”

 

“I can't do none of this… City shit, it's all too…” He trails off, then immediately recoups, straightening his jaw. “I don't like it and I wanna leave.”

 

Robbie blinks. He knows Levon doesn't like playing with Bob at all. He knows Levon wants the Hawks to do their own thing, to go on their own without some frontman, and without getting booed. Levon hates the booing more than anything.

 

Suddenly Robbie starts to speak without thinking, a stream of consciousness, of words he doesn't really mean, of nonsense. “How can you leave us? We're a band! You can't leave your own band…” 

 

Levon says nothing. He’s staring at his hands, at the veins that run over his sharp knuckles, and at his sullen, short fingernails. He takes another drag of his cigarette. Robbie inhales a deep breath and let's go of his anger. He sighs, and watches his closest friend as if he's a stranger. 

 

“This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Levon… How could you pass that up?”

 

Levon scoffs. “I'll tell you how.” He stubs out his half-smoked cigarette. “I don't like these people, so I'm gonna leave. I'm gonna get on a bus and leave. Get away from… Albert Grossman and Bob Dylan and all his New York sons of bitches…” He stops himself, glancing up worriedly into Robbie's face, scared he got too much off his mind. He licks his lips and starts over. “‘S jus’, all this booing shit an’ e’rything that comes along with it… I don't want it. It's a game I don't wanna play no more.”

 

Robbie thinks that maybe Levon just needs a break. He doesn't know how to comfort him, his best friend, the person he's felt the closest to out of everyone he's ever known. He quietly nods, and Levon continues, sort of under his breath, trying to assure Robbie that this is the right decision for himself to make; it seems, however, that he's assuring himself more than Robbie.

 

“I don't feel it,” he says, “I don't wanna play drums for nobody, an’ especially not him.”

 

Robbie moves closer, and Levon crashes into him, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him into a tight embrace. Robbie's a bit startled; Levon has his eyes screwed shut and hugs Robbie as if he's the last thing he has. (And maybe he is.) Robbie snakes his arm back around his waist and holds him there, with Levon’s head pressed into his shoulder. 

 

“Where are you gonna go?” he whispers gently. He doesn't want to press him too much. It's not worth trying to hold Levon back from something he feels he needs to do. He's too set on this belief that he doesn't belong in a backing band for Bob, and Robbie finds it in him to respect that decision. He can't be pulled back with Levon, anyway: what would the rest of the band do without them?

 

“I'll go see my family for a few weeks,” Levon replies, “Then, I think I'll go down to New Orleans and find a job in the Gulf. Maybe workin’ for the oil rig on the coast.”

 

Robbie wants to gasp, but can't really find oxygen to breathe. He feels this is all his fault now, as if his companionship with Bob and his bringing the Hawks with him has caused this. The thought of Levon working on an oil rig in the Gulf sounds like a nightmare. He can't seem to understand why Levon would want to do such a thing, but he supposes the man has already figured this all out. He can't sway him anymore.

 

Robbie pulls back and looks down at his best friend. Levon’s pale blue eyes flick up to meet his, and Robbie smiles softly and presses a kiss to his forehead. “Hey man, you know whatever you gotta do, I'll be there to back you up.” In his head, it was a lighthearted thing to say, but saying it aloud his voice is choked and small. “Really, anything.”

 

Deep down, Robbie is scared. It's the same feeling as when he last left Toronto, when he looked back at the skyline and thought to himself, _Why is it that I feel as though I'm never coming back here?_ There's an anxiety that swirls around his stomach that makes him think this is the last time he'll see Levon Helm, and if not forever than for a long while.

 

And suddenly he's nostalgic of all the times they shared together in the past. He misses the days when he would wake up next to Levon in the beds of musty cheap motels in Louisiana or Texas, their breath still smelling fresh of marijuana and cigarettes from the night before. The cold winter nights in Toronto in his mother's home, when they slept curled into each other to keep warm, or maybe just to keep each other's company. Those nights: sometimes, there'd be kissing, sometimes, there'd be naïve touching, and sometimes, they'd whisper sweet things to each other about the rest of their lives together. They were younger then, just two kids, drunk and high off of life on the road with each other. 

 

_“Robbie?”_

 

_It was an early morning. They were in Missouri, on tour with Ronnie Hawkins. The sun was shining through the thin linen curtains of the motel room. The carpets were dirty, and the lights were yellow and dim._

 

_Robbie turned over in bed to face him. He's been up for a while already, having woken with the sun, but hadn't gotten out of bed yet. Levon started up at him with sleepy eyes, still only half-awake._

 

_“What's up?” Robbie whispered._

 

_“Can you tell me again what we gonna do?” Levon asked, and slung his arm over Robbie's thin waist, pulling him closer, then laying on his  own back.“Y’know, when we're older?”_

 

_Robbie smiled. In the past months, maybe even years, as Levon and him grew closer and closer, they began making plans with each other for the future. “Well, we’re going to get houses just down the street from one another, in the woods,” Robbie said, propping himself up on his elbow, his hand reaching up to draw tiny patterns into Levon's shirt.  “And we'll see each other every day.”_

 

_“And you'll be a famous guitarist, right?” Levon said. Robbie grinned._

 

_“Sure. And you'll be a famous drummer--”_

 

_“But not that famous.”_

 

_Robbie nodded, laughing. “Right, not too famous.” He went on. “We'd both have pretty girls… And we'd have children, too. And they'd be friends, too.”_

 

_“And we'd teach them how to play.”_

 

_“Yeah, we’d teach them how to play.”_

 

_Levon coughed. “And we wouldn't have no more Ronnie Hawkins bossin’ us around. No more grubby motel rooms.”_

 

_Robbie grinned and fell back down into the pillows. “You like it, you big liar.”_

 

_Levon shrugged and glanced over at Robbie, hiding his smile. It took him a while to reply, but when he did, it was soft and kind. “I only like it if you're with me, Rob.”_

 

Robbie blinks. He'll never get that feeling back, not even if he prays every night for it. He doesn't speak, and neither does Levon, for quite a long time. Each stew in their own thoughts, smoking cigarettes to pass the time. 

 

After a while, Levon looks at his watch and croaks out: “Robbie?”

 

Robbie glances up, and Levon is sitting up straight again, his hands on his knees.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Levon coughs. “Um, you wanna walk me to the corner?” He rubs his eyes, then smiles. “I gotta catch a cab to the bus terminal.”

 

“Of course I will.” Robbie stands, stuffing his hands in his pockets, looking for something. “Just give me one second.” 

 

He disappears into a bedroom, opening and closing drawers, while Levon waits buttoning his coat at the door. 

 

“What is it?” Levon projects, and Robbie finally comes back, shrugging on his jacket. 

 

“Here,” he says, and thrusts a guitar pick into Levon's palm. It's a tan brown color and Robbie's initials are scratched into it messily. It was his own: he'd used it for years, especially for big shows, like his first with Ronnie and his first with Bob. It made him play well.

 

Levon blinks up at him. “For what?”

 

Robbie shrugs. “I dunno, just to have.” He laughs, then adds, with a wink, “You know, on those hot lonely Arkansas nights when you think of me.” 

 

Levon scrunches his face up and elbows Robbie in the side, his ears going red. “Shut up, would ya?” He laughs, though, and takes the pick, running his fingers over the smooth surface before slipping it in his jacket pocket. 

 

“Do you have a ticket for a late-night sleeper or something?” Robbie asks, and Levon simply shrugs as they head out of the apartment.

 

“No,” he says, “I was just gonna wait for the next one going my way.”

 

As they walk towards the end of the block, Robbie puts his arm around Levon’s shoulder, and holds it there for a while. Levon curls into him slightly, and stays silent the rest of the way, dragging his luggage behind him slowly.

 

“When I get back home, maybe I'll call you.”

 

“Please do.” Robbie lets go of him. “Would you tell your mom I said hello, too?” he asks, grinning.

 

Levon cracks a smile, albeit a small one, but it means more to Robbie.  “Sure, I will.”

 

“And write to me. I'll send you postcards from when we go to Europe.”

 

Levon’s face scrunches up again. “No, don't go through all ‘at trouble fer me.” He turns toward the street and hails a cab. Robbie doesn't say anything.

 

A cab pulls up. The driver doesn't get out to help Levon with his luggage, so he stuffs it in the backseat himself. When he finally faces Robbie again, he doesn't meet his eyes.

 

“All right, well. I guess I'll see you ‘round, bud.” His face is melancholy and a bit drained. Robbie purses his lips.

 

“C’mere,” he says. Levon hesitates, but let's Robbie pull him in, stretching his arms around him. He holds him close for a moment, but not long enough, he thinks. He wishes he could, but the driver looks annoyed, and if they kept on any longer than a brief moment he would've driven off. 

 

“Tell the boys for me?”

 

“Yeah, I will.”

 

“Thanks.” Levon shuffles his feet, then, after realizing he has nothing much else to say, climbs in the backseat of the car. Robbie watches as Levon bends over to tell the cab driver his destination, then watches solemnly as he waves a final goodbye to him as the cab peels out into the city traffic.

 

How was he going to go about telling everyone? He worries. He notices he hasn't moved from the edge of the curb when the wind bites at his cheek coldly, and his toes start to get numb beneath the leather encasement of his boots. He turns back towards his place and lights a cigarette on his way back.

 

 _Don't be upset,_ he tells himself, a silent mantra as he sucks on the cigarette. _Don't be upset about it._

 

But he is, and it bothers him. That night, he thinks of calling up Bob and telling him, but changes his mind. He thinks the Hawks should know before anyone else. But then, he feels too emotional to say anything to them. So he puts the phone down before he does anything. He flops back on his bed and falls asleep. He’ll think about it all in the morning. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. 6

**May 24, 1966.**

 

“I won't _go,_ man! I won't do it!” Bob nearly shouts at Albert, his voice rising. Robbie watches from a safe distance. It's Bob’s birthday, and since they're in Paris, the only thing he'd like to do is meet his celebrity crush, Françoise Hardy. And he's being a real brat about it.

 

He's been bugging everyone about it for hours. At first, he didn't want to start the show at all until he saw her. Albert and Neuwirth got through to him eventually, and so he reluctantly played the first acoustic half of the show. The band has been waiting to go on and play their half of the show for nearly two hours now-- it's excruciating to watch. 

 

“All right, man, we’ll get her to meet you…” Neuwirth sighs, scratching the back of his head. He's stressed out, and Robbie can't blame him. Bob's fucking up everyone's schedule. “Just because it's your birthday, man. Don't think this will slide any other day of the year.” 

 

Bob’s not listening. He's looking through everyone, anxiously fixing his hair before storming out of the green room.

 

“Jesus, he's stubborn,” Rick says under his breath. Robbie smiles over at him. They're all still learning how to deal with Bob: Robbie the most. 

 

From his understanding, Bob had spotted Françoise in the crowd and picked her out. She’s polite to him, but noticeably uncomfortable. Robbie can see it after the show, when they're waiting for the car service to get back to the hotel. The cool Paris evening is calming and tranquil, and fills Robbie with a sense of contentment. The night has just begun, despite the performance being over. Now, he thinks, they'll go back to the hotel and drink and smoke and stay up until late into the night, until everyone is wrung dry.

 

At least that's what he hopes to do. Blow some steam. Celebrate Bob’s birthday with some big cake and a party. That's what he'd like to do. 

 

Bob’s practically hanging onto Françoise, trying to look her right in the eyes; he does that often, when he wants someone to pay attention to him. He’ll talk to you  as if you're the only person there, as if no one else exists, and try in earnest to make his words clear to you. Eventually he loses his orbit and finds someone else or sits with himself in silence. But those small moments, though they are few, make you feel like you've fallen in love with a man who probably couldn't care less about you. 

 

Robbie has mixed feelings about it all. 

 

“I'd like to play a few songs for you,” he's saying, fixing his white-striped suit jacket, which devours him in fabric and makes him look small and almost feminine. 

 

Françoise, the pretty, young, shy girl, smiles at him. “I'd like that,” she says, “but unfortunately I can't stay too late. Right, Johnny?”

 

Johnny Hallyday, some rock’n’roll French cat with long blond sideburns, nods at her. In a broad French accent, he goes, “We have got to get out early tomorrow for Italy.”

 

Bob almost glares at him, narrow blue eyes digging deep into the man's face. He focuses back on Françoise. “Well, you'll stay for a little bit, won't you?”

 

A little black car rolls up as she nods, and his nagging at her is unbearable to watch. The secondhand embarrassment is killing Robbie, and even more so as he slips into the seat across from Bob, Françoise and Johnny.

 

“Where in Italy are you goin’?” Bob asks, but judging by the tone of his voice, he doesn't really care much about her answer.

 

“We have a show in Florence.” 

 

Françoise smiles over at Robbie, and her face is sweet and pretty. Long brown bangs frame her golden skin and gentle smile. But Robbie can't seem to understand why Bob wants her. He has a beautiful wife back home. Suppose he wants someone different, someone new. 

 

For Bob’s birthday, there's a party in his hotel suite. Neuwirth ordered some huge cake that's usually commissioned for weddings. Robbie thinks it's as big as Bob, if not bigger, and is in awe when he sees it in the room.

 

Bob pays no mind to it. He's too antsy to sit down and eat cake. His hands sort of shake at his sides, and he speaks to everyone in short clipped sentences. 

 

“All you have to do is go up there and blow them out!” Neuwirth is saying to Bob, who’s standing with his arms crossed over his chest. “It'll take two minutes. Then you can go play with your French chick.”

 

“Would you cut that out?” Bob snaps, and narrows his eyes at the cake across the room.

 

“Cut what out?” 

 

“Stop…” Bob loses himself and stands back on his heels. “...Mocking me. Quit it, man.”

 

Robbie only partially sings along when Neuwirth queues _Happy Birthday._ The crowd in the room grows by the minute, and sings loud and clear. Bob stands and listens, glancing over at Françoise every couple seconds to make sure she's still there with him. Johnny sure is-- he's right next to Bob, almost ready to blow out the candles _for_ him.

 

Bob has to stand on a stool to blow them all out. The crowd of people around him cheer and clap in excitement as he does. Robbie thinks it's a bunch of crap. He doesn't understand why these people die to see him. _For what?_ he thinks. _What does he give them?_

 

He decides to ignore Bob for the night, even if it is his birthday. He wouldn't care, anyway: he's off in a separate room with Françoise. Some point throughout the night, in passing, Neuwirth mutters, “Who’s the barnacle man, now?” and laughs to himself. Robbie hates that. It makes him wish he never even met Bob. He hates the constant teasing and being made fun of just because he's friends with the guy. Well, maybe they're a little more than _friends,_ but...

 

He tries to mingle with some of the people flowing in and out of the suite. Every once in a while he'll see Rick or Richard, but they're often deep in their own conversations with new girls. 

 

Robbie meets a girl, at around 11 o’clock, and she is just gorgeous. Her name is Dominique-- her hair hangs low and dark and her skin is fair and freckled. She is shorter than Robbie by nearly a head, but she looks so beautiful when she looks up at him. Her green eyes and bright smile and rosy cheeks and everything-- Robbie swears he fell in love at first sight. 

 

He notices her from across the room and once they fall into conversation, they don't stop for hours. Dominique is French but has family in Montreal-- Robbie tells her he himself is from Canada, and learned French in school, but isn't fluent. He compliments her accent, and she compliments his playing. She wasn't able to get a ticket to the concert, but her friends and her had hung around outside just to see if they could hear the show. When he offers her a cigarette, she doesn't take it. She’s the first French person Robbie's met to ever decline a cigarette. 

 

“When do you go back to America?”

 

“We have two more shows,” Robbie answers. “In England. Then we go back home.”

 

“I'm asking,” she smiles, “because this summer I will be in Montreal.”

 

“Oh, yeah?” Robbie smiles. 

 

He invites her to their London show in a few days, and hopes she can make it. He'd love to have her there after the show. She says her and her friend, Chantal, who Rick’s been hanging around, might come.

 

The night is just starting to slow down. Robbie doesn't notice for a while, but by midnight, Johnny and Françoise have left. He knows when Bob enters the suite once again, in search of a bottle of wine and a new pack of cigarettes. People are still hanging around, but it's mostly the crew and their plus-ones. 

 

Robbie and Dominique are talking about his show when Bob comes over.

 

“Robbie,” he says.

 

Robbie cranes his neck back to look at him. “Yeah?”

 

Bob looks over at Dominique for a moment, watches her intently, before his eyes flick back to Robbie's. “Can I bum a smoke?”

 

It takes him a minute to respond. He searches for his pack of cigarettes and tosses it to Bob. Bob ends up sticking the pack in his pocket and walking back off without a thank-you.

 

“Is he always like that?” Dominique asks, sitting back. “He's so strange.”

 

“He's just tired. Long day,” Robbie says. He shrugs and turns back to her, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and keeping it there.

 

Dominique and Chantal leave, and Robbie finds himself almost-drunk and trudging back to his hotel room. Ever since their shows in London, Bob has arranged for Robbie and him to have rooms that connect. He doesn't tell anyone, of course; he doesn't even tell Robbie sometimes. It's a crapshoot whether Bob will come to see him at night. Either way, Robbie is stuck with listening to Bob’s typewriter clack away until the sun comes back up. It drives him mad.

 

As he's undressing for the night, he hears a knock at the connecting door. Knowing it's only Bob, he doesn't bother to open it for him. “Yeah?”

 

The door opens and Bob stands in the threshold as Robbie pulls on a clean white shirt. Bob is still in the matching suit he's been wearing since the show ended. His hair is messy and his eyes are dark and hollow, watching Robbie from the doorway quietly, like a wallflower.

 

“What's up, Bob?” Robbie doesn't make eye contact. 

 

“Who was that chick?” Bob finally says.

 

“What chick?”

 

“The one you were hanging onto all night long.”

 

Robbie glares over at him. “Her name’s Dominique.”

 

Bob walks into the room and sits on the edge of Robbie’s bed, which is really two twin mattresses pushed together. He supposes that's how they do it in France.

 

“Oh, she's a _French_ girl. I understand now.”

 

Robbie lies down on his back and puts his arms behind his head, stretching his legs out on the bed. He nudges Bob’s back with his toe, smiling. “Yeah, don’t get any bad ideas. She's mine. You've got your own pretty French girl to deal with.”

 

Bob snorts and turns to stare at the wall. “Yeah, not so much.” He rubs the back of his head and continues. “She didn't like me very much, I don't think.”

 

“Why?”

 

He shrugs and smiles a little. “Played some new songs for her. I thought she'd like them, but, man, she barely said a word t’me. Man,” he presses his palms into his eyes and sighs. “I even tried t’kiss her. She didn't have any of it. She jus’ said, ‘I better go, now,’ and left me hanging...”

 

Robbie doesn't say anything, staring at Bob from the bed. He isn't sure how to comfort him. He isn't sure if he wants to. At the same time, he feels horrible. On his birthday, everything he wanted never came. 

 

“It's stupid,” Bob says, staring straight at the wall. Robbie sits up quietly, and moves behind him, resting his chin on the man’s bony shoulder. “I shouldn’t’ve even bothered inviting her over, man. I'm sure she can get with someone that better-lookin’ than me anyway.”

 

Robbie's hands slide up his arms and slowly pull his suit jacket off. “Don't say that,” he whispers, knowing Bob probably won't be able to hear him. He breathes in his smell, clove cigarettes and coffee and sweat and a sweet smell he guesses is perfume. His hand slides between the buttons of Bob’s shirt and rests on his bare chest beneath it, holding it there for a moment, waiting to feel his heartbeat.

 

His breath ghosts against the skin of Bob’s neck, and a shiver runs down the man’s spine. He leans back into Robbie and sighs, tipping his head back. Robbie kisses there, lightly, using his tongue to tease beneath his jawline and under his ear. Bob's unruly curls tickle his face and he laughs.

 

“What?” Bob asks, now self-conscious. “Why're you laughing?”

 

“Your hair tickles.” Robbie’s thumb loosely unbuttons his shirt and lets it fall over his shoulders. 

 

He feels a little odd doing it, taking control. He pushes Bob lightly on his back and lay on top of him, meeting their lips in a soft kiss. He props himself up on his elbows and feels Bob’s hands on his back, gripping onto his shoulder blades.

 

“Great way to end my birthday,” Bob mutters, as Robbie kisses down his neck. 

 

“You don't want to?” He doesn't stop, anyway. He knows Bob is only joking. 

 

Bob sighs as the younger man sucks a hickey under his jaw. “Didn't say that.”

 

“You implied it.”

 

“Pretend I never said anything.” And Robbie obliges. His hands sneak between them and deftly unbutton Bob’s trousers, dipping beneath them to hold his cock in his hand. He waits for Bob’s sigh which comes from the back of his scratchy throat. 

 

He pumps it a few times, waiting for it to get hard. He presses a kiss into Bob's cheek, then down his bare chest, over his bony rib cage and lower. His hands span Bob’s thin thighs, ridding them of the pants, coaxing them open. He kisses in between them, at the pale skin there. He’s nervous to go any farther: how was he supposed to go down on him? It made him feel queasy, but maybe, at the same time, excited. 

 

Bob’s hands go to Robbie’s head, pulling at his hair. “Please,” he whines quietly, and Robbie studies his face, needy eyes and pink cheeks.

 

Robbie finally pulls his hand up, steadily holding the base of his cock. He licks his lips, then presses his tongue to the tip, swirling it around. He watches for any sort of reaction from Bob, who is watching him with his mouth hanging open.

 

Robbie feels a bit uncomfortable doing it, feels a little embarrassed and inexperienced, but he wraps his lips around him and tries his hardest to make him feel good. It isn't that difficult, after a moment of getting used to the heaviness on his tongue. And he thinks Bob must be so sensitive-- so wound up-- that the lightest touch is pleasurable.

 

“Jesus, _fuck,_ ” he whines, as Robbie’s hand leaves the base, and his lips replace it for a mere moment before he pulls back up again. He jacks Bob off for a moment, catching his breath, thinking, _God, I’m an amateur._ Bob doesn't seem to care, and Robbie grows harder as he watches the man writhe underneath him. 

 

That feeling, knowing he made him feel good, makes Robbie crave more. He dips back down and slowly starts over again, breathing through his nose now.

 

 It doesn't take long before Bob rugs at his hair, saying, “I’m coming--”

 

It surprises Robbie a bit, how quickly he was able to unwind. He pulls off, stops touching the older man. Timidly, he asks, “Did that feel good--?”

 

“Yes!” Bob says. His face is hidden in the crook of his elbow, and his chest is heaving, revealing the sharp bones of his ribcage with every breath. When he finally comes to, his eyes wide, his lips bitten red, he mumbles, “Thank you.”

 

Robbie doesn't know what he means. He blinks, and says, “You're welcome.” He doesn't think it’s something he’s obliged to do, like a job. He doesn't think fooling around with Bob is a favor, or even a gift. He sits back, and lays down next to him.

 

“How old are you, again?” Robbie asks, watching as Bob lights a cigarette and pops a pill from a container in his jacket pocket into his mouth.

He slowly buttons his shirt back up as he responds. “Twenty-five.” He blows a puff of smoke out, then says, “When's your birthday?”

 

“July fifth.”

 

Bob nods. “Right, yeah.” He pauses, then stares back at Robbie, and takes awhile to say anything else. Robbie becomes fidgety, uncertain of what to do with himself, awkwardly sitting on the edge of the bed. 

 

Finally, Bob says, “You know, you're the one person I can actually tolerate on this whole god-damn tour.”

 

Robbie smiles. “Is that because I get you off?”

 

“No. Well, partially.”

 

They laugh, but Bob continues, earnest to make himself clear. “I mean, anyone can get me off. You do more than that. More than, you know, the shallow, vain things.

 

“Everyone I've met wants something from me… Whether that's money, my autograph, or uh, my answers to their questions. It used to be like, you know, I'd meet someone and they'd say, ‘Hey, I saw you play the other night and you were great, and I like that new song you wrote.’ Now, it's ‘Hey, I've got no clue who you are, but my boss wants to know who your songs are for, won't you tell me what these songs are about? Won't you tell me why you're so famous?’ And, what do I say to that? I can't pick it all apart like it's a meal. It's not my fault that I'm getting a higher salary than I was five years ago… And anyways, I've been finding it more difficult to get away from this whole fame thing. I mean, it's really eating me up, you know? I feel like the only pleasure I get is when I'm alone with you, making music. I feel like that's the only time I'm happy anymore.”

 

 _Jesus Christ,_ Robbie thinks, because Bob has never spoken that much to him in one sitting. He can tell how strung out he is just by glancing over at him, at his sullen face and sunken eyes and burning cigarette. Robbie licks his lips and sighs inaudibly, staring longingly at Bob, who seems to have finally realized how much he said, and looks embarrassed.

 

“I should go back to my room,” Bob speaks the thought they both share.

 

Robbie nods. “Goodnight. Happy birthday.”

 

“G’night.” Bob smiles shortly, and goes back to his room quietly. 

 

Robbie instantly regrets not saying anything back, wondering if he hurt his feelings. It would be too awkward to turn back and climb back into bed with him, so he doesn't. But as he falls asleep he stares at the crack of light that seeps beneath the connecting door from Bob’s room, illuminating the patterned carpet with a dim yellow light. It doesn't go out until hours later.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. 7

* * *

“What are you thinkin’ about, man?”

 

The question always seems to come up now. Robbie even feels guilty that he forces Bob to ask it so often. By now he should know how to hide from it, but for some strange reason, he can't. Bob, even having gone through complete and utter 

 

Robbie glances over at Bob, who’s watching him from across the aisle of the private jet. Robbie always dreads having to travel on the private jet. He'd much rather get on an ocean liner like Garth and Mickey, or at the very least a commercial airline. Private jets make him feel queasy; each time he glances out the window he squirms in his seat and thinks of a freak accidental crash in the Appalachian mountains or a cornfield like Buddy Holly. It could very well happen to them. In fact, he'd guess Bob would coin it a miracle.

 

He clears his throat. “Nothing, just daydreaming.”

 

“Back in New York,” Bob starts, tapping at his cigarette in thought, “Are you at the Chelsea?”

 

“Sure I am.”

 

Bob nods. “Yeah, me too. For a little while, at least. Sara…”

 

 _Sara._ Robbie hasn't thought about her in weeks. 

 

“She and I still have to find a better place, you know, to raise the kids right.” He looks tired. Drained. But not as bad as last night, Robbie thinks. Last night was awful. At least today he looks _alive._ He wonders if Bob recalls exactly what happened after the last show.

 

“You don't like New York?”

 

“It's not that I don’t _like_ it-- I don't think kids should be raised in a city. That's not where... you know, that's not what they should be exposed to.” He grins, and says, “Too nitty gritty,” then loses his grin and sucks his thin face back into a somber pout.

 

Robbie smiles. For a moment, he sees the look in Bob’s eyes, a protective one. Like he was straight and sober-- grounded even. Like there aren't  amphetamines swirling through his bloodstream as they speak. 

 

Impulsively, Robbie says, “You'll be a great father.” As if he _knows_ what a great father looks like. He doesn't, but he can take a guess.

 

Albert is snoring, long, heavy breaths that remind Robbie of the nights in England or Scotland (Which country was it? What city? He should really know-- he's a sentimental person), where it was the only sound heard in the darkness of the other room as him and Bob messed around (Could he even call it that? “Messing around?” It sounds like an understatement). 

 

“It's weird, you know,” Bob starts, biting the nail of the middle finger holding his cigarette, “how at the end of last year’s tour, I felt so different. I mean it's strange. I just want to get home now, get away from all these nasty people. Last year I felt… I don't know, fulfilled in some way, you know? Now I just feel fucked. Screwed over.” His voice goes quieter towards the end, and Bob grows a bit nervous that anyone else was listening to him. But the plane is quiet, aside from Albert. No one is really listening to their conversation, except maybe the pilot. 

 

Bob continues, eager to make himself clear. “And man, this whole tour fucked me up. I can't even think straight. I can't even walk straight, that's how bad it fucked me up.” He grins, but when he meets Robbie’s gaze he loses it again. 

 

“It all just feels a bit hazy, now that it's over,” Robbie says, carefully choosing his words. “I feel as though it all went by so fast.”

 

Bob hums, and that ends it. They go quiet again for a while. Robbie tries not to look out the window, and studies his fingernails, picking at them.

 

Thinking about home, Robbie suddenly remembers the interview he watched Bob give a month ago. It was a horrific interview, with a Danish man who really was polite, but couldn't get through to Bob. 

 

_It was a small furnished room in the suite. The reporter was allowed in, but only for a little while. Bob had a show that night, and the man was eager to grab a chance to interview him beforehand. He was sweet, really, from what Robbie could hear. He watched the interview from the far end of the room, sharing a cigarette with Neuwirth, who was being merciful to him that day._

 

_Bob looked about as worn out as ever. His voice was fried out, a throat scratched and worn out from screaming; his eyes were dark and tired, and his lips were chapped and pulled in a tight line. But he wasn't acting hostile, as he usually did towards interviewers._

 

_“Do you think you'll do another tour after your next album?” the reporter asked, his accent prominent. “The people here in Denmark, they adore your music, and would love to have another chance to see you.”_

 

_Bob’s elbows rested on his knees as he held his face in his hands. “I just wanna go home.”_

 

_The man opened his mouth, then closed it again. Robbie passed Neuwirth the cigarette. He could tell how tense Bob was and wished he could do something about it._

 

_Bob rocked forward and backward on the couch, stiff and shaken as if he were a child in some awful catatonic episode. His voice was thin and wavering, scratchy and deep, and he went on. “You know what home is? I don't wanna go to Italy no more. I don't wanna go nowhere no more. All I do is… Move. From one place to another. It's like… You know, uh. Buddy Holly. You know his whole story, right?” He snickered,  and his fingers edged to his temples, pressing there as he rocked. “You end up crashing in a private airplane… in the mountains of Tennessee… Or--”_

 

_The reporter earnestly tried to change the subject. “Well, when--”_

 

_Bob finished his thought. “Or Sicily.”_

 

_“When do you go back-- You stay in the States, when do you go back?”_

 

_Bob rocked forward again and screwed his eyes shut. “I don't know. I just wanna go home. You know what home is? Back… there I got… Baseball games, and… all-night TV… It's like paradise. That's where I come from”_

 

_That night, the suite was quiet. Bob wasn't feeling great. The day was long and gruesome: jet-lag that lingered from Australia, treacherous interviews with prying journalists, drugs, another shitty loud show and a couple of hundred boos, more drugs, alcohol, and then everything got quiet. It's funny, how the day twists into silent lulls where no-one is meant to do anything, really, but sit and idle away._

 

_Bob shut himself up in his room writing for a while until he came out and looked around for a while. He was looking for something, and Robbie watched him from afar, waiting for Bob's eyes to land on him and pick him out of their small crowd, but they never did._

 

_Instead, Bob had turned back into his room, shut the door behind him. When he came back out, he had on a suede jacket, shoes, and sunglasses, and discreetly left the room. Well, maybe he wasn't so discreet. Robbie saw him leave, and he's sure someone else in the room did, too._

 

_“Where do you think he’s going?” Rick asked, grinning over at Robbie._

 

_Neuwirth answered for him, interjecting with an awful mean glare in his eyes. “Probably gonna go pick some chick off the streets. Get down and dirty. Hah!”_

 

_“Well, you know what they say,” Mickey said from across the room, “Copenhagen: the city of… The city of…”_

 

_The room laughed, except for Robbie, who sat quietly and studied the deck of cards he was using to play solitaire.  He didn't go to follow Bob at first. He didn't want to make another impression of himself for Neuwirth, who seemed to be watching him like a crow, waiting to tease and taunt him._

 

_In the middle of his third drink, Robbie feigned sleep and boredom and told Rick he was going back up to their room to rest._

 

_“Are you sure? It's only ten.”_

 

_Robbie shrugged. “Jet lag, I guess.” He left the room and started on his way to finding Bob. He knew he didn't stay in the hotel, and once out on the dimly lit street, he searched for him. It wasn't too long ago that Bob had left._

 

 _As Robbie set out walking, he noticed a coffeehouse across the street and made a beeline for it. The sign on the window read_ **_KAFFE_ ** _,_ **_POESI, MUSIK._ ** _in thick, swirly lettering, and from Robbie's limited understanding of Danish, could translate._

 

_In some quiet interlude between practicing in his room and the concert, Bob had told him he’d been itching for a good poet to listen to for months. Robbie knew he'd have no luck here, anyway, as he wouldn't understand a word they were saying. He decided to check it out anyway, as he had a hunch that this was a place Bob would scope out._

 

_And he was right. At the entrance, a woman with long bangs approached Robbie, speaking to him in a language he couldn't understand. He shook his head to her, shrugged, said, “I'm not-- I can't-- I'm American.” He didn't want to lie, but it was easier to say than explaining that he's from Canada and that he only knew a little bit of French and not much else unless you counted his very small Iroquoian vocabulary from his mother._

 

_The woman left him alone, and he bristled past her, searching the dark coffeehouse for his boss. There was a beatnik reading poetry on the stage, and behind him, a jazz band awaited their slot. Robbie noticed Bob tucked in an especially dark corner._

 

_It wasn't until he got closer that Robbie noticed Bob was speaking to another man. Not just speaking casual, polite small talk-- he was fully engaged in conversation, pouring out to the man, as if he was his best friend. It certainly wasn't the Bob he saw earlier that day. This Bob was happy and energetic and-- staring right back at him._

 

_Robbie nearly froze in his steps, only feet away from the table. He didn't move until Bob ushered him over, breaking his conversation with the foreign man to make room for Robbie._

 

_“I'm sorry to interrupt, I really didn't mean to intrude-- I wanted to know if you were here, and-- Well, you are.”_

 

_Bob didn't care. “Robbie, this is Franz. He's a German musician. He writes protest songs.” That struck Robbie as a bit odd, because that's the exact label Bob runs away from in interviews and press conferences. He found it strange how Bob was so immersed in this man’s life when it was the same thing he did and the one group of people who turned against him when he changed._

 

_Though, perhaps Bob saw part of himself in the stranger._

 

_Franz was tall, pale and blond, with freckles everywhere and a funny looking flat cap on his head. He didn't look older than nineteen. He wore a black turtleneck which made him look thinner than he already was, and the sleeves cut short before his wrists and made his arms look gangly and long._

 

_Robbie nodded. “Oh? What do you protest?”_

 

_“Everything. You see, I lived in Paris a long while, and you have been there, have you not?”_

 

_“Sure, we’re going there soon,” Bob said._

 

_Franz went on. “Well, Paris has lots of-- Young ones, young people, like ourselves. I find we see things like no old person does. I find we are very intuitive as young people.” He spoke louder after the jazz band began their number, something Robbie’s musical ear recognized and caught onto simulataneously. “I write songs to inform old people to listen to what we have to say.”_

 

_Bob turned to Robbie. “And the war. He was talkin’ about his protests against the war.”_

 

_“Yes, I hate war. I hate it, you know? And now, especially now, I feel as though the world is falling apart. Missiles and gunshots and poverty-- Oh! the type of poverty we see every day.”_

 

_“You have a lot of poor people here?” Bob asked._

 

_“There are poor people everywhere, not just in New York City.” He held out the last syllable, smiling at Bob. Then he turned to Robbie. “Are you a writer, too?”_

 

_Robbie shook his head. “I'm a guitarist.” Then he paused and rephrased. “Well, I’d like to be a writer. I've written a couple of songs here and there, but nothing really good… Nothing that says anything, anyways.”_

 

_He sat back in his chair. A waitress came to the table and asked Robbie if he'd like anything. Robbie shook his head no, and she left._

 

_“All songs say something,” Franz said. “You just have to look closer at them.”_

 

_On the way back to the hotel, Bob spoke softly. “I wish I was like him again.” He stopped in the street, which was quiet and lined with cobblestone. He looked up at Robbie, as the guitarist slowed down with him.  With the guise, the wisdom and mystique of an old man, he said, “I wish I was like you again.”_

 

_“What do you mean?” Robbie asked, and Bob simply shook his head._

 

_“Nothing, man, I'm just…” But he watched Robbie, with his baby blue eyes which were soft and somber now. “...Thinking out loud, I guess.”_

  
  
  


Bob nudges his foot. “Hey,” he says, and Robbie snaps out of his memory. “Half an hour till we land.”

 

Robbie nods and says nothing. He keeps his mouth shut and aches for the rest of the plane ride, stealing glances here and there at the man across from him, wondering if he was thinking about him at all, trying to get inside his head for fleeting moments.

 

When they finally land and head through customs, Bob hails himself a taxi. It feels as though this is the end-- the _real_ end, nothing more than this. It makes him feel odd.

 

“You going straight to Chelsea?” Bob asks, hauling his bags in the trunk of the taxi. He looks frail and withered like he’ll fall apart if you touch him, yet holds himself so casually, throwing his jacket over his shoulder and smoking a cigarette like he just landed the main role in a cheap production of _A Streetcar Named Desire_.

 

“Not right away. I've got to get stuff out of storage,” Robbie answers. He watches as Bob slides his sunglasses on and opens the passenger door of the taxi. 

 

“All right, man. Hey, I'll see you later, then.” 

 

Robbie gives a small smile back. “See you later, man.”

 

As he climbs in the car, he calls over his shoulder, “Maybe we can catch a movie next weekend, or something.” He shuts the door punctually behind him before Robbie can say anything back. 

 

As he watches the yellow taxi roll away, fighting with the airport traffic, a new one rolls up right where he's standing. Robbie slides into the back, pulling his luggage behind him. 

 

The driver turns around to look at him. He's an old Italian man with thick eyebrows that make his black eyes seem to disappear in his skin. With a New York accent, he says, as the car pulls out into the traffic, “Where to, hotshot?”

 

Robbie tells him, and leans his head on the window as they drive off, and he feels different. Remorseful, even. And a little tired, as it feels like the middle of the night yet the sun is still shining brightly over him.

 

He itches for a cigarette but finds that he smoked his last one on the plane. He closes his eyes and tries to fall asleep, dreaming of a life where perhaps things were different, one where he could have gotten in that car alongside Bob and driven off with him into new but unknown beginnings. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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